Во поле береза…

Little birch so lonely was standing In the field a curly one was standing Lonely, lonely was standing Lonely, lonely it's standing No one can cut up birch's branches No one can cut up its curly branches Lonely, lonely it's standing Lonely, lonely it's standing I'll go into forest for a walk I'll cut up branches from the stalk Only three from the stalk Only three from the stalk I will make from them three whistles And go home through blooming thistles And go home with the music of my whistles And go home with the music of my whistles Little birch so lonely was standing In the field a curly one was standing Lonely, lonely was standing Lonely, lonely it's standing No one can cut up birch's branches No one can cut up its curly branches Lonely, lonely it's standing Lonely, lonely it's standing