U poli mohyla z vitrom hovoryla:
– Poviy, vitre buynesenkyi, shchob ya ne zchornila.

Shchob ya ne zchornila, shchob ya ne zmarnila,
Shchob na meni trava rosla, rosla-zelenila.

Trava vyrostaye, buynyi viter viye,
A v mohyli spochyvayut' strilci sichoviyi.

Oy spit', sokolyata, choch temnaya chata,
Vam vesnoyu chrest skvitchayut' ukrayins'ki divchata.

Vkrayins'ki divchata, ukrayins'ki dity –
Bude taya davnya slava v pisnyach homonity.

Bude homonity ta y bude kazaty:
Shchob ne zdala syna z voyny ni otec', ni maty.

Ni otec', ni maty, ni sestra, rodyna,
Shchob ne zdala mylenkoho lyubaya divchyna.