Songs

Ptichka bozhiya prosnulasya s zareyu,
God’s little bird awoke at dawn,
A uzh paxarya zastala za soxoyu;
To find the ploughman already at his plough;

Poletit ona k lazurny'm nebesam
Off she flies to the blue sky above
I, chto vidit v selax, vsyo rasskazhet tam.
Where she will tell of what she sees in the villages.

Skazhet ptichka bogu, chto bednyak stradaet,
The little bird will tell God that the poor man suffers,
Chto krovavy'm potom nivu oroshaet;
That he waters the fields with his blood and sweat;

Ne mila, kak ptichke, paxaryu vesna,
Spring is not kind to the ploughman, as it is to the bird,
Ne neset s soboyu radostej ona...
It brings with it no joys at all…

Vstretil by on solnce pesenkoj veseloj,
Fain would he greet the sun with his merry song,
Da molchat zastavit gnet nuzhdy tyazheloj.
But heavy burden oppresses him and makes him silent.

Na serdce zaboty kak svinecz lezhat,
Cares, like lead, weigh heavily on his heart,
Ponevole pesnya ne pojdet na lad.
There is no mode to which to tune his song.

Skazhet ptichka bogu, chtob ego ruka
The little bird will ask God to succour
Podderzhala v gorkoj dole bednyaka.
The poor man in his bitter lot.

Chtob emu nesti svoj krest dostalo sily,
To grant him strength to bear his cross,
Chtob bez ropota dobrel on do mogily.
To stagger to the grave without complaint.

_Text - _Pleshcheyev after Syrokomla_