Hard by the hillside lies a warrior,
Tanned by the burning sun
And, too weak to grasp the weapon,
His hand has fallen.

Ah, bright pearls trickle
From the deep pain of his wound[.]
It is Lajos the Magyar[.]
His heart is bleeding to death here.
 
Borne high upon a foam-flecked steed,
From the fray his brethren
Brought him dying to the hillside,
Wildly pursued by a swarm of foes.
 
Around the corpse, wringing their hands,
They stand numbly, almost senseless[.]
They quietly lower him into the grave
But one of them speaks passionately: Bare your heads.
 
Farewell, comrade, we did not fight in vain!
With courage we broke the chains of the slaves.
Freedom was at stake, [freedom] is what makes life worthwhile,
And we paid for it with our blood.
 
Into the emptiness of your heart, muted by the grave,
No second life shall now penetrate[,]
But the tear wept by your brethren
Falls upon your grave as a silent tombstone.
 
Farewell!