One more hero to be part
  Of the Servians' glory!
Lute to lute and heart to heart
  Tell the homely story;
Let the Moslem hide for shame,
Trembling like the falcon's game,
Thinking on the falcon's name—
  Luka Filipov.

When he fought with sword and gun
  Doughty was he reckoned;
When he was the foremost, none
  Blushed to be the second.
But he tired of the taint
Of the Turk's blood, learned restraint
From his sated sword—the quaint
  Luka Filipov.

Thus he reasoned: Though they fall
  Like the grass in mowing,
Yet the dead Turks, after all,
  Make a sorry showing.
Foes that die remember not
How our [[w:Montenegrins|]] bought
Our unbroken freedom—thought
  Luka Filipov.

So, in last year's battle-storm
  Swooped our Servian falcon,
Chose the sleekest of the swarm
  From beyond the Balkan:
Plucked a pacha from his horse,
Carried him away by force,
While we cheered along his course:
  “Luka!” “Filipov!”

To the Prince his prize he bore
  Just as he had won him—
Laid him at the Prince's door,
  Not a scratch upon him.
“Prince, a present! And for fear
He should find it lonely here,
I will fetch his mate,” said queer
  Luka Filipov.

Back into the fight he rushed
  Where the Turks were flying,
Past his kinsmen boldly brushed,
  Leaping dead and dying:
Seized a stalwart infidel,
Wrenched his gun and, like a spell,
Marched him back—him heeding well
  Luka Filipov.

But the Moslems, catching breath
  Mid their helter-skelter,
Poured upon him hail of death
  From a rocky shelter,
Till a devil-guided ball
Striking one yet wounded all:
For there staggered, nigh to fall,
  Luka Filipov!

Paused the conflict—all intent
  On the two before us;
And the Turkish regiment
  Cheered in hideous chorus
As the prisoner, half afraid,
Turned and started up the glade,
Thinking—dullard!—to evade
  Luka Filipov.

We'd have fired but Luka's hand
  Rose in protestation,
While his pistol's mute command
  Needed no translation;
For the Turk retraced his track,
Knelt and took upon his back
(As a peddler shifts his pack)
  Luka Filipov!

How we cheered him as he passed
  Through the line, a-swinging
Gun and pistol—bleeding fast—
  Grim—but loudly singing:
“Lucky me to find a steed
Fit to give the Prince for speed!
Rein or saddle ne'er shall need
  Luka Filipov!”

So he urged him to the tent
  Where the Prince was resting—
Brought his captive, shamed and spent,
  To make true his jesting.
And as couriers came to say
That our friends had won the day,
Who should up and faint away?
  Luka Filipov.