A noble szejke born and bred

Full loftily I held my head



Great Attila my sire was he

As legend he left to me.



A dagger, battleaxe and spear.

A heart to whom unkown is fear

A potent arm which often has slained

The tartar for in fields and plains



The scourge of Attila the bold

Still hangs amoung us as of old

And when this lash we swing on hig

Out enemies are forced to fly



The szekle proud then learned to know

And strived to become his foe

For blood of Huns runs in his warm

And will know to wield his arm.