Матушка, prohavan feat. Мария Белич - С полей
текст песни

I walked through the village, my pockets empty.
Water from a glass on my beard.
My grin was so cheerful. At home, my grandfather poured it there.
My grandmother baked pies with milk. Well, and me!
A village idiot, in a torn shirt, a stench coming from my breath.
A slob in wide trousers, an open soul.
Shaking violently, we were out for a walk yesterday.
The men are calling - back to the fields.
Tobacco smoke - the Belomor Canal.
I've lapped up some water - it's time to hay.
Our whole hut has been assembled there since morning.
Come on!
My cap fell on my head. Bast shoes on my feet, a sunken heart.
I've slung my pitchfork over my shoulders. My shirt is loose, full of goodness.
Oh! Fragrant grass! It will fill our hayloft with love.
Where the girl and I will spin like a top over the top until the morning.
Eh! How beautiful the field is, a boundless sea of ​​green grass.
And I feel so calm, and I surrender to wonder.
Happiness to the point of pain. A naive child.
Ah! This magical song.
My chest fills with air, so lightly!
Like a needed medicine, it inspires us, we soar high!
Like daily, tender love. It flows widely!
Pipes from the healing field, sweet sounds. Come to us, run!

The pipe from the fields beckons as beacons on Ivan Kupala!
This is an Orthodox holiday for pagan bravado!
The smell is wonderful, my eyes are red, I mowed a haystack in one go!
The pipe from the fields will make the tense relax!
The pipe from the fields beckons as beacons on Ivan Kupala!
This is an Orthodox holiday for pagan bravado!
The smell is wonderful, my eyes are red, I mowed down a haystack in one go!
A whistle from the fields will make the tense ones relax!

It's a fairy tale, how frosty it is, harness the pig to the cart.
Hey, teenagers, chin up, do more, cry less.
Please don't be cruel, build your own abode.
Sing more harvest songs, calm down, be less angry.
If you're feeling down, it's time to mow.
Sickle and scythe are sharpened, the meadow is awash with sweat.
One swing and the haystack is cut, it's evening, time to go home.
May your head sway to the sound of a whistle! This song is for our own, who wandered among the nettles.
Whoever desires only color, sows peace and positivity.
This parable has a motive, our entire friendly team.
That will pull you past dirt, parasites, and other things.
I, like a buffoon, brought along some jokes.
So that the heart's flute will drive away mosquitoes.
So that seven sweats flow, and goodness flies.
Whoever is upset, come, the hayfield will take you aboard!

The flute from the fields beckons as beacons on Ivan Kupala!
This is an Orthodox holiday for pagan bravado!
The smell is wonderful, your eyes are red, you mowed a haystack in one go!
The flute from the fields will make the tense relax!
The flute from the fields beckons as beacons on Ivan Kupala!
This is an Orthodox holiday for pagan bravado!
The smell is amazing, my eyes are red, I mowed down a haystack in one go!
A whistle from the fields will make the tense ones relax!