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.