On a cold misty October morning

In the year of the lord 1462

The horses appeared on the hills of Brasov

The process of damnation had begun

He killed by crushing them under the wheels of barrows

Others were undressed and skinned alive

To their very bowels and others still were

Impaled upon the wooden poles

The cold wind of death follow in his way

Deme quaden thyrane

Some of them were run through with stakes

That impaled their heads, breasts, behind

Until the pole was driven through the mouth

To ellude the lack of any cruelty, he drew stakes through

The breast of mothers and then went by impaling their infants

Upon these

The cold wind of death follows in his way

Deme quaden thyrane

The cold wind of death follows in his way

Deme quaden thyrane

So many have to die by the horrible ways of torturing them

With such instruments that can only be invented

By the most nefarious cruelty-possessed

By the uttermost dreadful tyrant that ever existed