Three years! Three years! And it has scarce begun!
Three years of waste and wretchedness and woe,
Since one man's lunacy put back the sun.
Yet — were we happier three years ago?

Three years. Our swords were rusty — and our souls;
And this old lion was despised of men.
Were we the people to defend the Poles?
The very Wop was laughing at us then.

He is not laughing quite so much, we hope:
We are not quite so comic as before.
Respected, feared, we struggle up the slope
And march, if God commands, for three years more.