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In my beloved Ukraine,
My tomb upon a grave mound high
Amid the spreading plain,
So that the fields, the boundless steppes,
The Dnieper’s plunging shore
My eyes could see, my ears could hear
The mighty river roar.
But not with Muscovites,
For Muscovites are foreign folk,
They do not treat you right.
A Muscovite will love for sport,
And laughing go away;
He’ll go back to his Moscow land
And leave the maid a prey
To grief and shame…
BEST!