Never say that you have reached the very end When leaden skies a bitter future may portend. For sure the hour for which we yearn will yet arrive And our marching steps will thunder - we survive!
Not lead, but blood, inscribed this bitter song we sing, It’s not a caroling of birds upon the wing. But ’twas a people midst the crashing fires of hell, That sang this song, and fought courageous till it fell!
Zog nit keyn mol az du gayst dem letzten veg, Ven himlen blayene farshteln bloye teg; Kumen vet noch undzer oysgebenkte shuh, Es vet a poyk tun undzer trot -- mir zaynen do!
Dos lid geshribn iz mit blut un nit mit blay, S'iz nit keyn lidl fun a foygl af der fray, Dos hot a folk tsvishn falndike vent Dos lid gezungen mit naganes in di hent.