THE LANDLORD OF OLD TIMES.
(Loquitur.)
To whom I like I mercy show,And whom I like I kill;My fist—my only constable,My only law—my will.A blow from which the sparkle flits,A blow that knocks the teeth to bits,A blow that breaks the jaw!
To whom I like I mercy show,And whom I like I kill;My fist—my only constable,My only law—my will.A blow from which the sparkle flits,A blow that knocks the teeth to bits,A blow that breaks the jaw!
To whom I like I mercy show,And whom I like I kill;My fist—my only constable,My only law—my will.A blow from which the sparkle flits,A blow that knocks the teeth to bits,A blow that breaks the jaw!
To whom I like I mercy show,
And whom I like I kill;
My fist—my only constable,
My only law—my will.
A blow from which the sparkle flits,
A blow that knocks the teeth to bits,
A blow that breaks the jaw!
The mighty chain is snapped in twain,Is snapped and bounds asunder.The landlords clutch one broken end;At t’other peasants blunder.The fields remain unploughed and bare;The seed is left unsown;No trace of order anywhere,O mother-land, our own!Not for ourselves thus sorrow we;We grieve, O native land, for thee!Oh, true-believing peasantry!Russia’s your mother small;The Tsar’s your little father.And that for you is all!
The mighty chain is snapped in twain,Is snapped and bounds asunder.The landlords clutch one broken end;At t’other peasants blunder.The fields remain unploughed and bare;The seed is left unsown;No trace of order anywhere,O mother-land, our own!Not for ourselves thus sorrow we;We grieve, O native land, for thee!Oh, true-believing peasantry!Russia’s your mother small;The Tsar’s your little father.And that for you is all!
The mighty chain is snapped in twain,Is snapped and bounds asunder.The landlords clutch one broken end;At t’other peasants blunder.
The mighty chain is snapped in twain,
Is snapped and bounds asunder.
The landlords clutch one broken end;
At t’other peasants blunder.
The fields remain unploughed and bare;The seed is left unsown;No trace of order anywhere,O mother-land, our own!Not for ourselves thus sorrow we;We grieve, O native land, for thee!
The fields remain unploughed and bare;
The seed is left unsown;
No trace of order anywhere,
O mother-land, our own!
Not for ourselves thus sorrow we;
We grieve, O native land, for thee!
Oh, true-believing peasantry!Russia’s your mother small;The Tsar’s your little father.And that for you is all!
Oh, true-believing peasantry!
Russia’s your mother small;
The Tsar’s your little father.
And that for you is all!