Russian Folk Song

Oh, you land of ancient epics, Land of endless suffering, More than once consumed by fire, My Holy Rus. I was born and raised right here, Dreaming of a life of freedom, Which, through no fault of my own, I had been denied since birth. Here you'll find the most ingenious Masters of all kinds of crafts, While the wondrous Russian maidens Are so beautiful and gentle. Crowning the Russian land, Glorious in its splendid beauty, Is the city of golden domes, Oh, our Mother Moscow. Inside the chambers and mansions here, Sitting on the long oak benches, Are long-bearded ancient oaks— The boyars and the princes. Oh, Sovereign, do not be angry— No matter how wise you may be, With so many goats in office, What kind of progress can there be?