Ho, ye youthful swains, topbooted and lithe,
Ho, ye damsels in scarlet wear,
In Kijov town ye ever were blithe,
And blithe shall ye ever be there.
E’en as from fragrant vines it had gushed,
E’en as ye sing my lays;
The blood of the Slav is fierily flushed,
Lips burn and eyes are ablaze.
Who smite us, who shall afflict us with ill?
Of a master naught we know;
And as blithe as we live and drink our fill,
As blithe to our end we shall go.