After the Emancipation of the Serfs
The mighty chain is snapped in twain,
Is snapped and bounds asunder.
The landlords clutch one broken end;
At t’other peasants blunder.
The fields remain unploughed and bare;
The seed is left unsown;
No trace of order anywhere,
O mother-land, our own!
Not for ourselves thus sorrow we;
We grieve, O native land, for thee!
Oh, true-believing peasantry!
Russia’s your mother small;
The Tsar’s your little father.
And that for you is all!