Russian Folk Song

Oh, you are the land of epic tales, A much-suffering land, That has burned in flames more than once, My Holy Rus. I was born and raised here, I dreamed of a free and open life, Which, through no fault of my own, I was deprived of from birth. Here there are truly skilled Masters of all kinds, And the wondrous Russian maidens Are beautiful and tender. Crowning the Russian land, Glorious in its beauty, The golden-domed capital, Oh, Mother Moscow. Here in the chambers and mansions, Sitting on the long benches, Are the long-bearded oaks, The boyars and the princes. Oh, Sovereign, do not be angry — No matter how wise you might be, With so many goats in positions of power, What kind of progress can there be?