From ancient times we've been husbandmen in our land here,
Here we sow our furrows, pasture our flocks and herds
Here in spring with hope greet the migrating birds,
With hope in autumn wave off their departing bands, here.
From ancient times beneath a lord or a tsar's hand here,
We have gone forth to wars by foe or neighbour stirred.
Though for the blood we spilt of thanks came not a word -
Only our homes and crosses to the flames were damned here.
Thus in home and field our husbandry we practice,
Hoping aye for seed and crop that nothing mars,
- Vainly, as grass hopes for dew when summer chars -
Bringing forth our bread and others' bread in anguish,
Choking back the cry: how long must we still languish
Neath Warsaw of the lords and Moscow of the tsars?