The Burgher banged his fist on the table Red face glowing with pride “We'll rise,” he cried, “as soon as we're able Avenging the ones who died No more the hunted No more the mouse No more the quivering prey The masters are driving the slaves from the house The masters are coming to stay” The Burgher dipped his bread in the gravy Splattering his silken tie Nachmal the Wehrmacht Nachmal the Navy Nachmal the thundering sky Once more the stadium rocking with cheers Once more the torchlight parade Away with the cowering dog-bitten years Away with the humble charade “A thousand years The tears of the weak for our wine A thousand years We'll pluck them like fruit from the vine Ah, they fed us and clothed us and handed us weapons as well But give us a leader We'll follow him down into hell” The Burgher spilled his wine on the table
Staggering out of his chair “We'll rise,” he cried, “as soon as we're able Stroking the young man fair The English are finished The French are fools The Russians have China to fear The Yanks holler ‘commie', and follow their rules When the time for the rising is here” The young man's eyes were fiery and glowing The Burgher's hand in his own “We'll rise,” he cried, “the movement is growing We'll march on a road of bones They're coming from Egypt They're coming from Hess They're coming from Argentine We'll march over Russia; we'll march to the west We'll show them what conquest can mean” “A thousand years The tears of the weak for our wine A thousand years We'll pluck them like fruit from the vine Ah, they fed us and clothed us and handed us weapons as well But give us a leader, by God And we'll see them in hell”