Hey, Slavonians, be ye mindful that our tongue dies never,
While our faithful hearts are beating for the nation ever;
Live, long live the Slavic language, sounding through the ages,
Thunder rolling, wrath eternal! Vain our foeman rages.
’Tis the gift our God entrusted, God the Lord of thunder,
Therefore who on earth can wrest it from our lives asunder?
Though our foes, like hosts of darkness, in proud ranks are swelling,
God is with us: fall upon them, Perun all dispelling.
Though against us clouds are looming, mighty storms impending,
Rocks destroying, strong oaks cleaving, earth’s foundations rending,
Firm we stand as castle ramparts, tongue and homeland shielding;
May the earthquake sieze the dastard who would dream of yielding!