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-rep

When I am dead, bury me
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.

O lovely maidens, fall in love,
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…

+rep

+rep