Текст песни Юрий Гуляев - Колокольчики мои

Alexey Tolstoy
 
My bells
 Flowers are steppe!
What are you looking at me
 Dark blue?
And what are you ringing about
 Happy May Day
Amid the mowed grass
 Head shaking?

The horse carries me with an arrow
 On the field open;
He tramples beneath you,
 Beats with his hoof.
My bells
 Flowers are steppe!
Do not curse me
 Dark blue!

I would be glad not to trample you,
 Glad to rush past
But the rein cannot be restrained
 Running indomitable!
I'm flying, flying an arrow
 Just dust up;
The horse carries me dashing
 And where to? I do not know!

He is a learned rider
 Not raised in the hall
He knows the buranas
 Grew up in the open field;
And does not shine like fire
 Your cap is patterned
My horse, horse, Slavic horse,
 Wild, rebellious!

There is room for us, horse!
 Forgotten world is cramped
We fly at full speed
 To the goal of the unknown.
How will our run end?
 Joy eh? a gruel?
A person cannot know -
 God knows one!

I’ll fall on the salt marsh
    Die from the heat?
Or the evil Kyrgyz kaisak
    With a shaved head
Silently pull his bow
    Lying under the grass
And it will catch me suddenly
    Copper arrow?

Or we will fly into a bright city
    With the throne Kremlin?
Miraculously the streets are buzzing
    The rumble of a bell
And in the square people
    In a noisy wait
Sees: coming from the west
    Light message.

In the kuntushi and in the chekmen,
    With forelocks, with a mustache
Guests ride horses
    Waving maces
Aboard, system formation
    Honorably speaking,
Sleeves behind them
    The wind is blowing.

And the master is on the porch
    He went out majestic;
His bright face
    Shines with new glory;
All of it was performed by a look
    And love and fear
On his forehead burns
    Monomakh hat.

"Bread and salt! And in good time! -
    Sovereign says .-
Long, children, I was waiting for you
    To the Orthodox city! "
And they answered him:
    "Our blood is one,
And we have been in you since ancient years
    Tea mister! "

The bells are louder
    The harp is heard
The guests sat around the tables,
    Honey and mash pour
The noise flies to the far south
    To the Turk and to the Hungarian -
And buckets of Slavic sound
    Germans do not like!

Goy you, my flowers,
    Flowers are steppe!
What are you looking at me
    Dark blue?
And what are you sad about
    Happy May Day
Amid the mowed grass
    Head shaking?