THERE resteth to Servia a glory,

A glory that shall not grow old;

There remaineth to Servia a story,

A tale to be chanted and told!

They are gone to their graves grim and gory,

The beautiful, brave, and bold;

But out of the darkness and desolation

Of the mourning heart of a widowed nation,

Their memory waketh an exultation;

Yea, long as a babe shall be born,

Or there resteth a man in the land,

So long as a blade of corn

Shall be reaped by a human hand,

So long as the grass shall grow

On the mighty plain of Kossovo,—

So long, so long, even so,

Shall the glory of those remain

Who this day in battle were slain.