Listen to me, my son
Our fate is a horse and the field
A ringing saber – that is our destiny
We will not find peace at home.

Born for knightly glory
Standing behind a plow, one perishes from boredom
The hearts of such men yearn for Cossack battles
Where kindred spirits, warriors, and friends are.

As long as our churches burn
A brother sells his brother for a червонець
Our sacred purpose
Is to bring retribution for lawlessness.

Let us go to foreign lands
Let us stretch our strength, let us roam
Let the expensive cathedrals of the infidels
Be consumed by righteous fear and fire.

Let us march in orderly detachments across the steppes
Let us gallop wildly, cutting through the expanses
Let the black raven spread the word
About the Cossack warrior.

We will thrust our sharp spears into the sky
We will overshadow the horizons with our regiments
The enemy already knows that he cannot buy his way out
From the Cossack with yellow gold.

We are not marching for trophies
We are led forward by great faith
If we are to die for our native land
No one here will be afraid to be the first.

A fierce battle awaits us
Wise elders will compose heroic tales
And if we remain in the field forever
Well, then we will live on in legends.