The Cossack! the Cossack! his steed is his throne;
On the steppe and the desert his glory is known;
For he sweeps like the wind from the camp to the fray,
And woe to the foe and the flying that day!
"False pagan!" he cries, "are you slave—are you Shah—
Now die by this lance, or take oath to the Czar!"
The Cossack! the Cossack! a flame of the south
Is the glance of his eye, is the word of his mouth,
For the steed that he rides, for the saint he implores,
And, fairer and dearer, the girl he adores.
The maiden's fond lover—the Czar's faithful warder—
Ho! drink to the Cossack, from border to border!