My son, give me my spade and plow —
To labor is our lot,
And though a lonely being now,
I’ll guard our little cot.

Within the valley of thy birth
Lies armor we will raise;
‘Tis hid within our native earth,
Awaiting better days.

And when I see thee draw once more
Thy father’s conquering sword,
I’ll dream our night of slavery is o’er,
And freedom is restored.

And oh, my son, weep not for me;
These aged hands can toil
For our support–but ’tis for thee
To guard our native soil.

My hope on God and thee depends,
And God will me reward;
My corn will grow to feed the friends
Whose swords our freedom guard.

See where yon trees their branches wave,
And shroud the church in gloom,
There, sooner than become a slave,
Thy sire will find a tomb.

And if returned from foes o’ercome,
To me be tear-drops given;
If not, thy arms must share my tomb,
And seek thy sire in heaven.

From —Poets and Poetry of Poland A Collection of Polish Verse, Including a Short Account of the History of Polish Poetry, with Sixty Biographical Sketches of Poland’s Poets and Specimens of Their Composition— by Paul Soboleski.