Where the skies are blue in winter by the Adriatic Sea, And the summer skies are bluer even than our own can be; In the shadow of a murder, weak from war and sore afraid; By the ocean-tinted Danube stood the city of Belgrade. Danube of the love-lit starlight, Danube of the dreamy waltz-- And Belgrade bowed down in ashes for her crimes and for her faults. And the Prussian-driven Austrians who'd been driven oft before, From Vienna's cultured city marched reluctantly to war.
Just to clear a path for Prussia, and her bloodhounds to the sea; To the danger of the white world and the shame of Germany. And a blacker fate than Belgium's stared the Servians in the face. But Belgrade had many soldiers of the old Slavonic race, And her gun-crews manned the Danube, small and weak, but undismayed-- And Belgrade remembered Russia, and she called on her for aid. And there came a secret message and a sign from Petrograd, And the Servian arm was strengthened and the Servian heart was glad. For the message in plain English, from the City of Snow, Simply said: "I'm sending Ivan by the shortest route I know." So then Servia bid defiance, for she knew her friend was true; And her guns along the Danube added blue smoke to the blue.
Sign in to unlock this title
Sign in to continue reading, it's free! As an unregistered user you can only read a little bit.
