Scattered Shrubs. Vast Steppe Horizons
Scattered shrubs. Vast steppe horizons. Moonlight spreading everywhere. Sudden sob of sleigh bell sighing, Jingling in the chill night air. Road we love, not much to boast of, But to which we're born and bred. Down it many a time has boldly Many a man of Russia sped. Hail, you snowsleighs! Fleet and pleasant! Aspens rustle as you run. My old man he was a peasant, Here am I - a peasant's son... I don't care a damn I'm famous And a poet - what the hell! I've not seen these parts for ages, Things don't seem to go too well. Anyone who's once gone racing Through a countryside so smooth Feels like kissing and embracing Every birch-tree's pretty foot. How can I refrain from weeping When these villages merrily ring To the young folk's concertinas In grey winter, in green spring. Concertina, bane of the nation, Many a man has thrown away A magnificent reputation To the music that you play.