There was a time in our Ukraine When cannon roared with glee, A time when Zaporozhian men Excelled in mastery! They lived as masters—freedom’s joy And glory were their gain: All that has passed, and what is left Is grave-mounds on the plain! High are those ancient tumuli In which were laid to rest The Cossacks’ fair white bodies In silken cerements dressed. High are those mounds, serene and dark Like mountains they appear, Their gentle whispers to the wind Of freedom’s fate we hear. These witnesses of ancient fame Hold converse with the breeze; The Cossacks’ grandson reaps the grass And sings old memories. There was a time when in Ukraine Even distress would dance, And sorrow in a tavern drank In honeyed brandy’s trance. There was a time when life was good In that Ukraine of ours . . .
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