Holy Russia, thou
Dost deserve to be
"Mother" called by all,
In our love to thee!
For thy glory fair
We should face the foe,
And thy freedom guarding
Glad our lives bestow!
NIKITIN.
THE SONG OP THE SPENDTHRIFT
To seven kopek the heir,
Nor house nor land have I—
Live I—hey! I live then!
Die I—hey! I die!
In many realms the Fool
Can sleep no wink for care,
While yet the spendthrift snores
When dawns the morning fair.
Free as the wind he blows,
Door nor gate to balk him,
Riches, hey! Now give place!
Poverty goes walking!
Before me bends the rye
When through the fields I stray
And glad the forest hears
My pipe and song alway.
If one must bitter weep—
No man will see his tears,
If sadly bowed his head—
None save the partridge jeers.
If weary one, or not,
What matters anything?
Let him toss back his locks
And playful laugh and sing!