Текст песни Мужской Хор Валаам - Не бил барабан перед смутным полком

Did not beat a drum in front of a vague regiment,
When we buried the leader,
And the corpse is not with a rifle farewell fire
We lowered it into the bowels of the earth.

And poor honor for the night is given;
They dug a grave with bayonets;
The moon shone dimly for us in the fog,
And the torches sparkled smoky.

There is a coffin cover on it,
Lies not in a boardwalk -
Wrapped in his wide battle cloak,
He fell asleep like warriors in the field.

Not long, but fervently prayed to the creator
His dashing squad
And silently looked into the eyes of the dead,
Thinking about tomorrow.

Perhaps, suddenly appearing in the morning,
The enemy is impudent, full of arrogance,
Will not respect you, comrade, but us
Irreversible waves will rush away.

Oh no, will not touch in a mysterious dream
Until the brave thought of sorrow!
Your lonely bed in the wrong side
The dear hands were laid.

The fatal rite has not yet been completed,
And the hour of separation came;
And the Perun messenger struck from the shaft,
And to us he is not a herald of battle.

Forgive me, comrade! There is nothing here
In memory of a bloody grave;
And we leave you alone
With your undying glory.
Yves. Yves. Kozlov

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
And the lanthorn dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that 's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him -
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.

Charles Wolfe