I am not sorry, so that you may know

Of my young life:

And sometimes such sorrow

I'm so sad that I cry.

And even before I see

A little boy in the village.

As if torn from a branch,

All alone under the fence

Sitting there in an old hayloft.

It seems to me that this is me,

That this is my youth.

It seems to me that it will never

It will never see freedom,

Holy freedom. That it will

Wasted, wasted, wasted

His best years will be wasted,

That it will not know where to go

In the seven wide worlds of freedom,

And he will go to work, and someday,

That he should not cry, nor grieve,

That he will find a home somewhere,

He will be given away to the Muscovites.