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.