On the Hills of Manchuria by Stepan Skitalets

All is quiet around; the hills are shrouded in mist.

Now, from behind the clouds, the moon gleams forth;

The graves stand guard over the peace.

White crosses gleam—here heroes sleep.

Shadows of the past have long been circling near,

Whispering of the fallen in battle deep

All is quiet around; the wind has swept the fog away.

On the hills of Manchuria, the warriors sleep,

And hear not the tears of the Russian people.  Nay!

A mother weeps for her own blood brood,

A young wife weeps for her husband;

They weep, every one of them, as a single soul,

Cursing wrong  fate and destiny cruel.

May the tall sorghum fields lull you to sleep;

Sleep on, heroes of the Russian land,

Sons of our native Fatherland indeed.

Sleep on, sons; you perished for the Fatherland;

But believe this: we shall yet avenge you,

And hold a bloody funeral feast in your honour then.

A mother weeps for her own blood brood,

A young wife weeps for her husband;

They weep, every one of them, as a single soul,

Cursing wrong  fate and destiny cruel.

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