Albania
Oh, poor Albania, bruised from lashes
Who dared push your face in ashes?
Hailed once a woman of noble birth,
Mother you were called by men of this Earth.
Rich you were, to tell the truth.
With lovely girls and handsome youth,
With lots of cattle, gardens, farms
With Latin rifle and other arms
With men of courage and women of cheer
In all the world you had no peer.
When guns boomed like the crack of thunder
Albania’s men rushed out of yonder,
And always fought well, till the end came,
And never soiled their name with shame.
When men of Albania pledged to fight,
All of Rumelia shivered with fright,
In fierce battles they fought and died,
With honor their memory inscribed.
But now, Albania, you’re a sight of woe
Just like an oak tree brought down low!
All step on you as if you were dead,
And not one kind word to you is said.
French Soldiers in Kosova
Once you dressed well, like a woman high-born,
Today, your fine robes are badly torn,
You’ve lost your name, your faith, too,
And none is to blame for it but you.
Albanians, you are slaying one another,
Some shout for country, some against sin,
One says I’m Turk, another Latin,
Others Greeks or Slavs profess to be,
Fools! You are brothers can’t you see?
Priests and mullas have made you mute
To keep you split and destitute.
Foreigners sit by your fireplace,
Your wives and sisters they disgrace,
And if money comes knocking on your door
The faith of your father you ignore,
You become slaves of alien boors,
Whose race and tongue differ from yours
Weep, oh your rifles and you who care
Albanians, like birds, are caught in a snare,
Weep with us, you warriors all around,
For Mother Albania, lying on ground;
