That land, which weeps beneath the yoke
Its slaughter'd sons, and foeman's stroke:
Land of the stern, unbending oak.
Land of the free, the German land,
That once I call'd my Fatherland.

Why weeps the minstrel's Fatherland?
It weeps before a tyrant's dread,
The valour of its monarch's fled;
At Deutchland's voice a people dead,
Despised, unheeded its command.
This, this weeps, my Fatherland.

Whom calls the minstrel's Fatherland?
It calls on spirits pale with wonder,
In desperation's words of thunder,
To rise and burst its chain asunder.
On retribution's vengeful hand,
On this calls my Fatherland.

What would the minstrel's Fatherland?
To blot out slav'ry's foul disgrace,
The bloodhound from its realms to chase,
And free to bear a freeborn race:
Or bid them free beneath its sand,
This, this would my Fatherland.

And hopes the minstrel's Fatherland?
Yes, that for God and Deutchland's sake,
Its own true people will awake,