On the morning of the twentieth of July

On the morning of the twentieth of July, ; The regiment marches on the top of the mountain. ; But when they came down from the top of the mountain, ; The poor fell from the heat. ; ; The regimental doctor reports in great haste, ; The scoundrels should rest. ; The colonel cruelly said, ; The scoundrels will march on. ; ; The colonel's order was harsh, ; A few scoundrels fell dead. ; Each had a last word, ; May the hand of God watch over their families. ; ; The news spread to our Hungarian homeland, ; They talked about what had happened in Bosnia. ; But many mothers fell to the ground crying, ; Their children would never come home again. ; ; In the garden of the Bileki cemetery, ; Fifteen good Hungarian boys wither away. ; May blessings descend on their dust, on their graves, ; Oh, my God, that a mother should not cry. ; ; My mother, my mother, my mother, do not cry, ; Your son rests on the coffin board. ; His grave is a garden of flowers, ; His headstone is full of wreaths.