Best Borodino Poems
Guv, tell me, not without the reason
our Moscow in the fired treason
was burnt and left for French.
Oh, there were fights I see their splendours
so awesome and we have the embers,
No wonder Russia still remembers
Borodino’s black trench!
It was the time there were the people,
The modern tribe looks like some cripple,
They’re Heroes they’re not you.
Their fate is bad their fate is sorry:
Not many had returned with glory,
God will be done and our story
left Moscow beauteous view.
We were retreating long and silent
So sad we waited fight and quiet
The old men grumble so:
What? Winter quarters willy-nilly?
Can chiefs tear up strange tunics killing
with Russian bayonets and feeling
that French would have to go?
And field was found: it’s large and ample
There was the space to walk or trample
Then we had built redoubt.
We kept our head; it is warning,
The cannons lightened with the morning,
Crowns of blue trees were full of dawning,
The French’s right here; they’re proud.
I put the ball in cannon tightly,
I thought I will regale “friend” lightly,
Oh, little wait, monsieur.
Do not be cunning, soldiers. Action!
We’ll go as wall against their faction,
We will stand head and shoulders. Passion!
For Motherland, hell yeah!
There were two days of endless shooting,
I saw no point in this duty,
Third day we waited for.
The speeches were among blood splashing:
“It’s time for case-shot for the smashing!”
And night fell down on field of slashing
with shadow pausing war.
I lay to sleep near carriege boring,
I heard that French exults for morning
over the battlefield.
Our bivouac was very quiet
Some cleaned his shako after riot,
Some sharpened bayonet untired
Biting moustache and chilled.
P.S. This is my translation of poem by Mikhail Lermontov.
And when the sky turned light and rosy
All started fussy fast and noisy,
Line by the line had shown.
Our colonel’s born as dashing fellow,
Tsar’s servant; dad for soldiers. Bellow
spread after wound – not voice of cello,
So pity, now he’s gone.
He told us with the eyes of fire:
“Guys! Moscow is behind” and prayer
said for Moscow here we’ll die
like our Brothers in Arms were dying
And we gave oath without the lying,
We kept it truly without crying,
Borodino, good-bye!
Oh, what a day, through smoke of battle,
French went like clouds and it was fatal
For our poor redoubt.
Uhlans with their motley badges,
Dragoons with horse-tales; dust and ashes;
They all were here on wings of vengeance,
They flashed and they went out.
You’ll never see the fight like ours!..
There were the shades and flying banners,
The blaze had seemed through smoke,
Damask was singing, case-shot’s squealing,
The warrior’s arm had tired of killing,
Balls couldn’t fly through bodies thrilling,
We couldn’t even walk.
The foe had known the rage and power
Of Russian combat in bad hour,
What does it mean – dogfight!..
With jolt of earth our chests were shaking,
A thousand volleys merged in aching
howl; horses, people were making
Blood mass before the night.
It became dark, but we were ready
Since morning stand against them steady
Again, until the end…
Drums rattled, enemy retreated,
We started count the wounds, we did it,
We were so tired, but undefeated,
All had his parish friend.
It was the time there were the people,
The modern tribe looks like some cripple,
They’re Heroes they’re not you.
Their fate is bad their fate is sorry
Not many had returned with glory,
God will be done and our story
Left Moscow beauteous view.
P.S. This is my translation of poem by Mikhail Lermontov
In seventeen sixty nine a child was born
in Corsica, Genoa's former vassal state.
Prior to his birth, his land had been war-torn,
Paoli's resistance did his birth predate.
At school, his geometrical talent was inborn,
and he was tutored by none other than Laplace.
For his accent, his peers at school laughed him to scorn,
but fortune would elevate him from grass to grace.
With his much older heartthrob he tied the knot;
much to the chagrin of his own dear family.
For the heart of Josephine he relentlessly fought,
and at Chateau de Malmaison they lived happily.
Later he would choose a military career
that would take him beyond the Corsican frontier.
France's revolution saw to his glorious rise,
when at Toulon, he took royalists by surprise.
To Egypt he led a dual expedition
of a military and scientific mission.
To France he returned and sacked the directory,
taking charge of the affairs of state and treasury.
Europe did contend with him in seven coalitions;
at Austerlitz he subjugated two nations,
at Marengo, Austria on her bended knees fell,
at Jena-Auerstadt, Prussia to victory bade farewell.
At Borodino, Russia met her nemesis,
as her vanquished forces saw their paralysis.
At Ligny, Blucher like a beaten canine fled
with the terribly smitten forces he once led.
Portugal's sovereign lord to distant Brazil ran,
when like an invincible lord he came to his realm.
The emperor he feared, and made no military plan;
thus he paved the way for him to ascend his helm.
But despite his triumphs, his weakness was exposed.
At Rolica, his troops a major set back saw.
From Leipzig he did to Elba's island withdraw,
from whence in 1815 he returned unopposed.
Russia's wintry plains did his grand armee deplete,
making his troops vulnerable to a future defeat.
After the famous battles in which he gloried,
his great ambition at Waterloo was buried.
At Austerlitz I two nations vanquished;
making me historically distinguished.
At Marengo I had Austria subdued;
then I was to honour undoubtedly glued.
At the Pyramids, Mamluks kissed the sands;
then like a French Pharaoh I annexed their lands.
At Jena-Auerstadt, Prussia to her knees fell,
to avoid carnage, and possibly hell.
At Borodino, Kutuzov my boots licked,
as his Russian forces had their arses kicked.
At Ligny, Blucher like a coward fled,
as his smitten forces profusely bled.
At Toulon I first distinguished myself
for a career that would exalt oneself.
Rolica, Leipzig, Waterloo like curses came,
but history will forever my triumphs reclaim.