The Maxims of Zagłoba “Mammon" (Continued) pg. 40

Lack of a penny, that is poison, that is great grief

Without Mammon: Zagłoba mocks the world

                                                The End

Song To the Tune of “From the Smoke of the Fire”^[1]

From the breast of the exhausted^[2], all powerful Lord

To you I raise up a screaming voice of complaint

A terrible adversity are these abysses

Towards which our cruel fate pushes [us]

Human righteousness, our treasure, does not pull [us] out

Through our fathers, something is given us

Our native tongue the foreign [tongue] casts out

It’s cruel, Oh Lord, our Lord is cruel

But that is not the end of our adversity

Which torments us Poles, your people

An excess of sorrow in Polish fields

The filth of disbelief has begun to spread

What delight in darkness and greed

Satan sent to subjugate the world,

To destroy faith, to destroy good-naturedness

Stands now at Polish huts

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[1] In a different handwriting. Presumably an intended reference to the mid-1800s patriotic song “From the Smoke of the Fires.”

[2] This word is plural