On the Way to the Drilling Field
Three hundred men in rank and file. One step! One pace!
Polished weapons glisten in the morning sun. The snow crunches, the frost forces tears, the breath congeals. The officers command, " Sing " !
From two hundred throats mighty it rings forth as if from one:
Sad am I, gloomy, evening as well as morning — hey! My young heart is devoured by aches and worries — hey!
My delight, my joy, tell me where are you now? — hey! Perching on a black willow tree — hey!
Wild winds blow over fields and forests — hey! In my young heart they are sowing sadness — hey!
Mother mine, mother, pity the rose that withers — hey! Pity still more the son that rots on foreign soil — hey!
O stinging grief of Ukrainian songs! Thou art beautiful and bitter as beads of water-elder in the fall ...
— — — — — — — —
— — — — — — — —
Three hundred men in rank and file. One step! One pace! Hey! How the blood impetuously courses in my veins!
And yet I well know, that this very minute you are bitterly crying for me, mother! And I feel that on your dear head another hair is turning silver ...
Hey! And I see how this very minute on a Caucasian mountain a sister of yours is bidding her blond son farewell. — She presses him to her breast and kisses his forehead, at which muzzles from three hundred rifles will aim .
Hey! and I see how this very minute under the flaming sun of Naples a mother sheds salt tears on the raven head of her only son — —
You distant, dear brother — and I am to be your murderer! ...
Polished weapons glisten in the morning sun. The snow crunches, the frost forces tears, the breath congeals. The officers command, " Sing " !
From two hundred throats mighty it rings forth as if from one:
Sad am I, gloomy, evening as well as morning — hey! My young heart is devoured by aches and worries — hey!
My delight, my joy, tell me where are you now? — hey! Perching on a black willow tree — hey!
Wild winds blow over fields and forests — hey! In my young heart they are sowing sadness — hey!
Mother mine, mother, pity the rose that withers — hey! Pity still more the son that rots on foreign soil — hey!
O stinging grief of Ukrainian songs! Thou art beautiful and bitter as beads of water-elder in the fall ...
— — — — — — — —
— — — — — — — —
Three hundred men in rank and file. One step! One pace! Hey! How the blood impetuously courses in my veins!
And yet I well know, that this very minute you are bitterly crying for me, mother! And I feel that on your dear head another hair is turning silver ...
Hey! And I see how this very minute on a Caucasian mountain a sister of yours is bidding her blond son farewell. — She presses him to her breast and kisses his forehead, at which muzzles from three hundred rifles will aim .
Hey! and I see how this very minute under the flaming sun of Naples a mother sheds salt tears on the raven head of her only son — —
You distant, dear brother — and I am to be your murderer! ...
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