The sword shall call the mountain when the loud
Metallic thunder crash of hilt and proud
Blade on uncomforting stone echoes down
The narrow cobbled streets of the old town.
The sword shall call the mountain when some strife
So mortally awesome threatens the life
Of a noble, sturdy and ancient land –
A call to arms so fierce and great, the hand
Which invasion feeds will flinch and start back.
The steel of Sigismund the old will crack
Stone with dancing and melodious tune
And make rise the southern giant! Rock, hewn
And cleft and broken and scarred will divide
A forth the legendary knight shall ride!
Giewont, our sleeping saviour , forget not
Us who shout your name and paint it in hot
Colours across the whisp’ring mountainscape.
Wake and march and ride and march and reshape
The course of things. Catch the fast-falling sword,
Bring us the rescue our King foresaw, ward
Our fragile land and see it once again restored.
End.
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