Oh, Magyar, keep immovably
your native country's trust,
for it has borne you, and at death
will consecrate your dust!

No other spot in all the world
can touch your heart as home—
let fortune bless or fortune curse,
from hence you shall not roam!

This is the country that your sires
have shed their blood to claim;
throughout a thousand years not one
but adds a sacred name.

'Twas here brave Árpád's mighty sword
ordained your land to be,
and here the arms of Hunyad broke
the chains of slavery.

Here Freedom's blood-stained flag has waved
above the Magyar head;
and here in age-long struggles fell
our best and noblest, dead.

In spite of long calamity
and centuries of strife,
our strength, though weakened, is not spent;
our country still has life.

To you, O nations of the world,
we call with passioned breath:
"Should not a thousand years of pain
bring liberty—or death?"

It cannot be that all in vain
so many hearts have bled,
that haggard from heroic breasts
so many souls have fled!

It cannot be that mind and strength
and consecrated will
are wasted in a hopeless cause
beneath a curse of ill!

There yet shall come, if come there must,
that better, fairer day
for which a myriad thousand lips
in fervent yearning pray.

Or there shall come, if come there must,
a death of fortitude;
and round about our graves shall stand
a nation washed in blood.

Around the graves where we shall die
a weeping world will come,
and millions will in pity gaze
upon the martyrs' tomb.

Then, Magyar, keep unshakeably
your native country's trust,
for it has borne you and at death
will consecrate your dust!

No other spot in all the world
can touch your heart as home;
let fortune bless or fortune curse,
from hence you shall not roam!

(Translated by Watson Kirkconnel)