Oh, my Rus', primordial! — Mikhail Dyakonov — @TerraRemiX

[Intro]
[distorted guitar riff with heavy palm muting, accordion melody, double-kick drums]

[Verse 1]
[male baritone vocals with slight grit]
Ah, my Rus', [accordion chords]
The original one!
Now cheerful,
Now sad.

[guitar chugging]
Now welcoming friends amidst the scent of pies,
Now chasing the Horde’s foes across the steppe once more!

And for three hundred years you live beneath the yoke,
Then, like water, you burst through the dam!

And then, to sow fresh woe among us,
The Teuton host marched across the ice of Lake Peipus!

But a young Russian prince met them there,
And beneath those Russian waters, the host was swallowed up!

And the Knyaz proclaimed: "He who comes with the sword
Shall perish by the sword!"

[Chorus]
[full band, harmonized guitars and accordion]
Rus' has eyes the color of cornflowers;
Behind her lie dense, ancient forests.
Whoever comes with a sword shall perish—
Upon foreign snows, across foreign steppes.

[Verse 2]
[bass-driven rhythm, accordion stabs]
Our Emperor took up his axe,
And hewed a window to the European yard!

But luck with that Europe was not on his side...
The yard was a privy—
it reeked of shit!

That European sought, like a thief,
To come to Rus' and trample our fields!

The Pole arrived and marched on Moscow,
But our Susanin lured them into the woods!

[Chorus]
[driving double-kick drums]
Rus' has eyes the color of cornflowers;
Behind her lie dense, ancient forests.

He who comes with the sword shall himself perish—
Upon foreign snows, across foreign steppes.

And then the Frenchman—cock-like in his air—
Felt within: "sans peur et sans reproche."

That little man marched off to war on Rus,
But fled from Moscow all the way to the Berezina...

And the quiet in their capital came to an end—
The Cossacks’ laughter roused Paris from its sleep!
The Cossack’s saber gleamed sharp and bright,
And the burring folk heeded the word "bistro"!

[Chorus]
[driving double-kick drums]
Rus' has eyes the color of cornflowers,
With dense forests and woods at her back.

He who comes with the sword shall himself perish—
Upon foreign snows, across foreign steppes.

But Rus’ gives Europe no peace;
They’ve gathered—as always—in a mob!

And there was an Austrian fellow among them—
Was he a writer? Or a painter? The devil only knows!

He fired at us and burned us alive,
But then he learned how we crush our foes!

On a clear May day in forty-five,
They found but the jaw of the madman!

[Bridge]
[half-time feel, sustained guitar chords]
It seemed one could simply live in one’s native land,
And show the beauty of Rus to all, in spite of them!

But our neighbor prostrated himself before Europe,
And fires flared up all along our borders!

And Rus’ drew breath—the hour had struck once more,
But this time, we shall be the first to strike!

So we need not drive foes back from Moscow’s gate,
We’ll march to them ourselves, to punish the fiends!

[Guitar Solo]
[harmonized lead guitars, fast shredding, accordion counterpoint]

And home we shall return, victorious once more!
We’ll drive that hellish horde back down to Hell!
To hell with that Europe... those senseless fools...
For Rus’ has eyes... the color of cornflowers!

[Chorus]
[full intensity]
Rus' has eyes the color of cornflowers,
With dense forests and woods at her back.

He who comes with the sword shall himself perish—
Upon foreign snows, across foreign steppes.

Since time immemorial, this is where we stand:
With a word, we sever the accursed host.
Ours is honor and truth, unending;
Rus’ has eyes—cornflower-blue.

3549/7500

[Intro] [distorted guitar riff with heavy palm muting, accordion melody, double-kick drums] [Verse 1] [male baritone vocals with slight grit] Ah, my Rus', [accordion chords] The original one! Now cheerful, Now sad. [guitar chugging] Now welcoming friends amidst the scent of pies, Now chasing the Horde’s foes across the steppe once more! And for three hundred years you live beneath the yoke, Then, like water, you burst through the dam! And then, to sow fresh woe among us, The Teuton host marched across the ice of Lake Peipus! But a young Russian prince met them there, And beneath those Russian waters, the host was swallowed up! And the Knyaz proclaimed: "He who comes with the sword Shall perish by the sword!" [Chorus] [full band, harmonized guitars and accordion] Rus' has eyes the color of cornflowers; Behind her lie dense, ancient forests. Whoever comes with a sword shall perish— Upon foreign snows, across foreign steppes. [Verse 2] [bass-driven rhythm, accordion stabs] Our Emperor took up his axe, And hewed a window to the European yard! But luck with that Europe was not on his side... The yard was a privy— it reeked of shit! That European sought, like a thief, To come to Rus' and trample our fields! The Pole arrived and marched on Moscow, But our Susanin lured them into the woods! [Chorus] [driving double-kick drums] Rus' has eyes the color of cornflowers; Behind her lie dense, ancient forests. He who comes with the sword shall himself perish— Upon foreign snows, across foreign steppes. And then the Frenchman—cock-like in his air— Felt within: "sans peur et sans reproche." That little man marched off to war on Rus, But fled from Moscow all the way to the Berezina... And the quiet in their capital came to an end— The Cossacks’ laughter roused Paris from its sleep! The Cossack’s saber gleamed sharp and bright, And the burring folk heeded the word "bistro"! [Chorus] [driving double-kick drums] Rus' has eyes the color of cornflowers, With dense forests and woods at her back. He who comes with the sword shall himself perish— Upon foreign snows, across foreign steppes. But Rus’ gives Europe no peace; They’ve gathered—as always—in a mob! And there was an Austrian fellow among them— Was he a writer? Or a painter? The devil only knows! He fired at us and burned us alive, But then he learned how we crush our foes! On a clear May day in forty-five, They found but the jaw of the madman! [Bridge] [half-time feel, sustained guitar chords] It seemed one could simply live in one’s native land, And show the beauty of Rus to all, in spite of them! But our neighbor prostrated himself before Europe, And fires flared up all along our borders! And Rus’ drew breath—the hour had struck once more, But this time, we shall be the first to strike! So we need not drive foes back from Moscow’s gate, We’ll march to them ourselves, to punish the fiends! [Guitar Solo] [harmonized lead guitars, fast shredding, accordion counterpoint] And home we shall return, victorious once more! We’ll drive that hellish horde back down to Hell! To hell with that Europe... those senseless fools... For Rus’ has eyes... the color of cornflowers! [Chorus] [full intensity] Rus' has eyes the color of cornflowers, With dense forests and woods at her back. He who comes with the sword shall himself perish— Upon foreign snows, across foreign steppes. Since time immemorial, this is where we stand: With a word, we sever the accursed host. Ours is honor and truth, unending; Rus’ has eyes—cornflower-blue.

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