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They call me old; but never mind that you are!
The gods gave such youth
Which endures time, immortal;
It lives in the brush, sound and song.
Mortal man is but the dust of the earth;
But art never dies!
 

They call me old; but never mind that you are!
Your lips can speak of glorious days.
When you were young, dear people
He woke up to a blessed age and new ideas.
I call you happy because you could see it
The era of Széchenyi and Vörösmarty.
 

And you understood more, even more!
When the flag was flown
And a victorious battle song roared:
An enviable artist, you understand that too,
And many great people of these great times
you have seen it, you know it.
 

Not with weapons, not with inflammatory speech,
Yet you stood among them with youthful fervor.
You fought together with the whole country,
Brush in hand and fire in your heart.
And to be admired by late grandchildren:
You have painted the hall of portraits of your age.
 

And what pictures! The best of our people
It marches in a long line before our eyes:
Kossuth, Petőfi's face and so many others,
- Who could list down how many! -
Hiven speaks to us through you.
Has anyone not seen it yet?... I don't think so!
 

And I'll say one more thing. Be blessed for that too!
You don't take the big world around your neck.
You stayed at home quietly, modestly;
We can also say about the native: long live!
The Hungarian knows him as his loyal son,
Whose homeland is not the wide world.
 

By the grace of God you understand
Development of Hungarian art;
And your two eyes see it with tears of joy,
That your country already has a photo essay.
The seed sown by the pioneers,
Rejoice, you will see it bear fruit!
 

Live your old age in peace.
It was fruitful, you didn't waste your life.
In the history of Hungarian art
You will live as long as merit is merit.
Next to your name in the future will be,
Being a pioneer, being one of the first.