You, our lord, shall sit in stone-built Moscow,
And your son in Vladímir,
And your nephew in Súzdal,
And your relative in Zvenígorod,
And let the equerry hold old Ryazán,
But to me, O lord, grant Nóvgorod:
There, in Nóvgorod, lies my luck.”
The voice of the Lord called out from heaven:
“Listen, you dog, Crimea’s tsar!
Know you not the tsarate of Muscovy?