– Chlopci chy chuly, yak surma po nas holosyla?
Syla voroza zakryla do voli nam shlyach...
– Pane chorunzyi, yakby z to bula prosto syla, *
My b toyu sylu davno vze trymaly v rukach.

– Plakaly verby nad doleyu nashoyu zloyu,
Tilky y bulo toho shchastya na ment, na kovtok...
– Pane chorunzyi, my yshly ne namarne do boyu; **
Shchos' taky, bachyte, vyroslo z nashych kistok!..

– Shchos' taky vyroslo, kazete?.. Tak, pravda vasha, –
Ale z dyvit'sya, yak hlushyt' te zillya osot!..
– Pane Symone, to konykam zavtrashnim pasha,
A chto na konykiv syade – dosyahne vysot!

– Chlopci, to shcho z: vam ne shkoda y zyttya molodoho? –
Vashi kochani vze pravnukiv nyanchat' svoyich...
– Pane Symone, my z tym nyni blyzche do Boha,
Shchob ne za sebe molytys' Yomu, a za nych.

– Shcho z, Ukrayini ne vik vikuvaty sumnoyu,
My shche narodymos' v nashych onukach ne raz!
Chlopci, ya dyakuyu vam, shcho buly vy zi mnoyu,
Chlopci, ya dyakuyu doli, shcho buv bilya vas! (ost 2 ryadky – 2)