Мужской хор Валаам - Не бил барабан перед смутным полком
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Мужской хор Валаам - Не бил барабан перед смутным полком - оригинальный текст песни, перевод, видео
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Не бил барабан перед смутным полком,
Когда мы вождя хоронили,
И труп не с ружейным прощальным огнем
Мы в недра земли опустили.
И бедная почесть к ночи отдана;
Штыками могилу копали;
Нам тускло светила в тумане луна,
И факелы дымно сверкали.
На нем не усопших покров гробовой,
Лежит не в дощатой неволе —
Обернут в широкий свой плащ боевой,
Уснул он, как ратники в поле.
Недолго, но жарко молилась творцу
Дружина его удалая
И молча смотрела в глаза мертвецу,
О завтрашнем дне помышляя.
Быть может, наутро внезапно явясь,
Враг дерзкий, надменности полный,
Тебя не уважит, товарищ, а нас
Умчат невозвратные волны.
О нет, не коснется в таинственном сне
До храброго дума печали!
Твой одр одинокий в чужой стороне
Родимые руки постлали.
Еще не свершен был обряд роковой,
И час наступил разлученья;
И с валу ударил перун вестовой,
И нам он не вестник сраженья.
Прости же, товарищ! Здесь нет ничего
На память могилы кровавой;
И мы оставляем тебя одного
С твоею бессмертною славой.
Ив. Ив. Козлов
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.
Чарльз Вульф
Когда мы вождя хоронили,
И труп не с ружейным прощальным огнем
Мы в недра земли опустили.
И бедная почесть к ночи отдана;
Штыками могилу копали;
Нам тускло светила в тумане луна,
И факелы дымно сверкали.
На нем не усопших покров гробовой,
Лежит не в дощатой неволе —
Обернут в широкий свой плащ боевой,
Уснул он, как ратники в поле.
Недолго, но жарко молилась творцу
Дружина его удалая
И молча смотрела в глаза мертвецу,
О завтрашнем дне помышляя.
Быть может, наутро внезапно явясь,
Враг дерзкий, надменности полный,
Тебя не уважит, товарищ, а нас
Умчат невозвратные волны.
О нет, не коснется в таинственном сне
До храброго дума печали!
Твой одр одинокий в чужой стороне
Родимые руки постлали.
Еще не свершен был обряд роковой,
И час наступил разлученья;
И с валу ударил перун вестовой,
И нам он не вестник сраженья.
Прости же, товарищ! Здесь нет ничего
На память могилы кровавой;
И мы оставляем тебя одного
С твоею бессмертною славой.
Ив. Ив. Козлов
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.
Чарльз Вульф
The drum did not beat in front of the vague regiment,
When we buried the leader,
And the corpse is not with gun farewell fire
We lowered into the bowels of the Earth.
And the poor thing is given to the night;
The grave was dug by the bayonets;
The moon was dimly shining in the fog,
And the torches flashed smoking.
On it not deceased cover of the grave,
Lies not in boardworms -
Wrapped in a wide combat cloak,
He fell asleep like warriors in the field.
Not long, but hotly praying to the Creator
His squad is removed
And silently looked into the eyes of the dead man,
Thinking about tomorrow.
Perhaps the next morning, suddenly appearing
The enemy is daring, the arrogance is complete,
Doesn't respect you, comrade, but us
Non -returning waves rush away.
Oh no, he will not touch in a mysterious dream
To the brave thought of sadness!
Your Odr lonely in the alien side
My birthmarks were laid.
The ceremony of fatal was not yet accompanied,
And the hour has come for separation;
And Perun Vestova hit the shaft,
And he is not a messenger of the battle.
Sorry, comrade! There is nothing here
Bloody graves as a souvenir;
And we leave you alone
With your immortal fame.
Eve. Eve. Kozlov
Not a drum was heard, not a funral Note,
As his corse to the rampart We Hurrid;
Not a Soldier Dischanged His Farewell Shot
O'er The Grave Where Our Hero We Buried.
We Buried Him Darkly at Dead of Night,
The Sods with Oour Bayonets Turning,
By the Struggling Moonbeam's Misty Light
And the Lanthorn Dimly Burning.
No usless 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 Weres 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 Though of the Morrow.
We Thoughht, As We Hollow'd His Narrow Bed
And smooth'd Down His Lonely Pillow,
Thatfe and the Stranger Woup 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 the Let Him Sleep On
In the Grave What a Briton Has Laid Him.
But Half of Oour 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 Weid Him Down,
From the Field of his Fame Fresh and Gory;
We Carved Not a Line, and We Raid Not a Stone,
But We Left Him Alone with His Glory.
Charles Wulf
When we buried the leader,
And the corpse is not with gun farewell fire
We lowered into the bowels of the Earth.
And the poor thing is given to the night;
The grave was dug by the bayonets;
The moon was dimly shining in the fog,
And the torches flashed smoking.
On it not deceased cover of the grave,
Lies not in boardworms -
Wrapped in a wide combat cloak,
He fell asleep like warriors in the field.
Not long, but hotly praying to the Creator
His squad is removed
And silently looked into the eyes of the dead man,
Thinking about tomorrow.
Perhaps the next morning, suddenly appearing
The enemy is daring, the arrogance is complete,
Doesn't respect you, comrade, but us
Non -returning waves rush away.
Oh no, he will not touch in a mysterious dream
To the brave thought of sadness!
Your Odr lonely in the alien side
My birthmarks were laid.
The ceremony of fatal was not yet accompanied,
And the hour has come for separation;
And Perun Vestova hit the shaft,
And he is not a messenger of the battle.
Sorry, comrade! There is nothing here
Bloody graves as a souvenir;
And we leave you alone
With your immortal fame.
Eve. Eve. Kozlov
Not a drum was heard, not a funral Note,
As his corse to the rampart We Hurrid;
Not a Soldier Dischanged His Farewell Shot
O'er The Grave Where Our Hero We Buried.
We Buried Him Darkly at Dead of Night,
The Sods with Oour Bayonets Turning,
By the Struggling Moonbeam's Misty Light
And the Lanthorn Dimly Burning.
No usless 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 Weres 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 Though of the Morrow.
We Thoughht, As We Hollow'd His Narrow Bed
And smooth'd Down His Lonely Pillow,
Thatfe and the Stranger Woup 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 the Let Him Sleep On
In the Grave What a Briton Has Laid Him.
But Half of Oour 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 Weid Him Down,
From the Field of his Fame Fresh and Gory;
We Carved Not a Line, and We Raid Not a Stone,
But We Left Him Alone with His Glory.
Charles Wulf
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