I gently strung my chonguri,
And tuned its chords with softness low,
Till every string rang harmony…
Odela-dela-delao!
It hums; then swells. O chonguri,
Your sounds delightful over me flow
In unison of melody…
Odela-dela-delao!
But if a chord were rent in twain,
Its song would sink to hummings low,
So, quickly string the chord again. . .
Odela-dela-delao!
The chonguri is Georgia fair;
The chords whose strains to anthems grow
Are we – her sons, her love and care…
Odela-dela-delao!
The broken chords turned glory bright
To darkness and to endless woe
Alas! can we sing in the night?
Odela-dela-delao!
The tiny ants together cling
In unity through weal or woe;
Then, why do we divided sing?
Odela-dela-delao!
A throne or us is unity;
A hangman’s halter for the foe! –
And while be sings: “O woe is me!”
We’ll sing: “Odela-delao”.
I bend my head as solitude
And sorrow bid my tears to flow;
My song is done; the chords are mute…
Odela-dela-delao!
