If only I could see
my fields and steppes again.
Won‘t the good Lord let me,
in my old age,
be free?
I‘d go to Ukraine,
I‘d go back home.
There they‘d greet me—
glad to see the old man.
There I‘d rest,
I‘d pray to God,
There I‘d—but why go on?
There will be nothing.
How am I to live in slavery
with no hope?
Do tell me,
please,
lest I go crazy
1848