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The pockets of our great coats full of barley
No kitchens on the run, no striking camp
We moved quickly and sudden in our country.
The priest lay behind the ditches with the tramp
A people hardly marching on the hike
We found new tactics happening every day:
We'd cut through reins and rider with the pike
And stampede cattle into infantry,
Then retreat through hedges where cavalry must be thrown.
Until at Vinegar Hill, the fatal conclave.
Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes against cannon.
The hillside blushed, soaked in our broken wave.
They buried us without shroud or coffin
But in August the barley grew up out of the grave.
To our blessed fallen comrades!
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Bitka Sve Rešava!
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