"Little Father," is your power then so paternal
As in pious proclamation is set forth?
If the round earth bears a brand of the infernal,
Does the trail of it not taint our native North?
Ay, we love it as in truth we've ever loved it.
Our devotion, poorly paid, is firm and strong;
Have our little pitied miseries not proved it,
And our weary tale of wrong?
"Little Father," we are hungering now, neglected,
While the foreigner shouts praises in our ports;
We are honoured, say your scribes, loved, feared, respected,
The proud Frank, we fought for you, your friendship courts.
The golden price of it you hug most gladly.
Well, that price, what is its destined end and aim?
The indulgence of ambitions cherished madly?
The pursuit of warrior fame?
Your realm is ever widening, Tsar, and lengthening,
Though its peoples--your dear children--prosper not;
Railways stretching, boundaries creeping, legions strengthening!
And the end, O Tsar, is--where?--the purpose--what?
The Afghan, Tartar, Turk feel your advancing,
The Persian and the Mongol hear your tread,
And an eager watchful eye is eastward glancing
Where the Lion lifts his head.
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