วีดีโอ

Hello. I'll try. _____ Legenda o 12 razboynikakh (Легенда о 12 разбойниках) The Legend of the twelve Robbers There were twelve robbers on the roads With Kudeyar at the head. They spilled the blood of the Christians For so many nights, many days. They robbed and took so much wealth Living in the very dense forest. And Kudeyar himself once stole From near Kiev a beautiful girl. He lied with the girl in the day While making the raids at night. But one day the fiend was awoken By remorse sent from the Lord. And ceased making raids. He went to the monastery To serve God and men. Let us pray to the God, our Lord, Let us serve Him, We will pray to the God "Let us pray to the God, our Lord, The anciant event we'll proclaim", - The way it was told on the Solovkies By honorable monk Pitirim. _____ It's probably not a perfect translation at all.😀

Hi, the original text is longer and is an exemption from a big poem by Nikolay Nekrasov "Who Lives Happily in Russia?" written between 1863 - 1877 which i recommend reading, it's a masterpiece. Even better if you learn Russian because, obviously it's a poem written in Russian. Here is the original version from the poem of the text which became a song: Chapter 8 Two Infamous Sinners Come, let us praise the Omnipotent! 280 Let us the legend relate Told by a monk in the Priory. Thus did I hear him narrate: Once were twelve brigands notorious, One, Kudeár, at their head; Torrents of blood of good Christians Foully the miscreants shed. Deep in the forest their hiding-place, Rich was their booty and rare; Once Kudeár from near Kiev Town 290 Stole a young maiden most fair. Days Kudeár with his mistress spent, Nights on the road with his horde; Suddenly, conscience awoke in him, Stirred by the grace of the Lord. Sleep left his couch. Of iniquity Sickened his spirit at last; Shades of his victims appeared to him, Crowding in multitudes vast. Long was this monster most obdurate, 300 Blind to the light from above, Then flogged to death his chief satellite, Cut off the head of his love,- Scattered his gang in his penitence, And to the churches of God All his great riches distributed, Buried his knife in the sod, Journeyed on foot to the Sepulchre, Filled with repentance and grief; Wandered and prayed, but the pilgrimage Brought to his soul no relief. 311 When he returned to his Fatherland Clad like a monk, old and bent, 'Neath a great oak, as an anchorite, Life in the forest he spent. There, from the Maker Omnipotent, Grace day and night did he crave: "Lord, though my body thou castigate, Grant that my soul I may save!" Pity had God on the penitent, 320 Showed him the pathway to take, Sent His own messenger unto him During his prayers, who thus spake: "Know, for this oak sprang thy preference, Not without promptings divine; Lo! take the knife thou hast slaughtered with, Fell it, and grace shall be thine. "Yea, though the task prove laborious, Great shall the recompense be, Let but the tree fall, and verily 330 Thou from thy load shalt be free." Vast was the giant's circumference; Praying, his task he begins, Works with the tool of atrociousness, Offers amends for his sins. Glory he sang to the Trinity, Scraped the hard wood with his blade. Years passed away. Though he tarried not, Slow was the progress he made. 'Gainst such a mighty antagonist 340 How could he hope to prevail? Only a Samson could vanquish it, Not an old man, spent and frail. Doubt, as he worked, began plaguing him: Once of a voice came the sound, "Heh, old man, say what thy purpose is?" Crossing himself he looked round. There, Pan[58] Glukhóvsky was watching him On his brave Arab astride, Rich was the Pan, of high family, 350 Known in the whole countryside. Many cruel deeds were ascribed to him, Filled were his subjects with hate, So the old hermit to caution him Told him his own sorry fate. "Ho!" laughed Glukhóvsky, derisively, "Hope of salvation's not mine; These are the things that I estimate- Women, gold, honour, and wine. "My life, old man, is the only one; 360 Many the serfs that I keep; What though I waste, hang, and torture them You should but see how I sleep!" Lo! to the hermit, by miracle, Wrath a great strength did impart, Straight on Glukhóvsky he flung himself, Buried the knife in his heart. Scarce had the Pan, in his agony, Sunk to the blood-sodden ground, Crashed the great tree, and lay subjugate, Trembled the earth at the sound. 371 Lo! and the sins of the anchorite Passed from his soul like a breath. "Let us pray God to incline to us, Slaves in the shadow of Death…."

Аминь!

Знаю . Не ответил мене от лица Твоего . Наберите - Пасюкова . И там будет

​​@@DaniilCdhd не отвержи мене во время старости П. Чеснокова. ☝🏻

I dont know exactly, but here on TH-cam I found records with (as far I can hear) F#1 and E1.

Nikolay Alexeyevich Nekrasov 10 December 1821 - 8 January 1878 a Russian poet, writer, critic and publisher. Author of a poem. Nikolai Alexandrovich Manykin-Nevstruev 1869 - ? a Russian composer, poet and soldier. Author of music for the poem.

​@@Mark_888 я прочитала, что это текст, переделанный для песни. Полностью оригинальный текст Некрасова - больше. К сожалению, не нашла перевода песни на английский. Огромное спасибо за эту поразительную запись!

@@КсенияИванова-н7я Hi, yes that is right, the original text is longer and is an exemption from a big poem by Nikolay Nekrasov "Who Lives Happily in Russia?" written between 1863 - 1877 which i recommend reading, it's a masterpiece. Even better if you learn Russian because, obviously, it's a poem written in Russian. Here is the original version from the poem of the text which became a song: Chapter 8 Two Infamous Sinners Come, let us praise the Omnipotent! 280 Let us the legend relate Told by a monk in the Priory. Thus did I hear him narrate: Once were twelve brigands notorious, One, Kudeár, at their head; Torrents of blood of good Christians Foully the miscreants shed. Deep in the forest their hiding-place, Rich was their booty and rare; Once Kudeár from near Kiev Town 290 Stole a young maiden most fair. Days Kudeár with his mistress spent, Nights on the road with his horde; Suddenly, conscience awoke in him, Stirred by the grace of the Lord. Sleep left his couch. Of iniquity Sickened his spirit at last; Shades of his victims appeared to him, Crowding in multitudes vast. Long was this monster most obdurate, 300 Blind to the light from above, Then flogged to death his chief satellite, Cut off the head of his love,- Scattered his gang in his penitence, And to the churches of God All his great riches distributed, Buried his knife in the sod, Journeyed on foot to the Sepulchre, Filled with repentance and grief; Wandered and prayed, but the pilgrimage Brought to his soul no relief. 311 When he returned to his Fatherland Clad like a monk, old and bent, 'Neath a great oak, as an anchorite, Life in the forest he spent. There, from the Maker Omnipotent, Grace day and night did he crave: "Lord, though my body thou castigate, Grant that my soul I may save!" Pity had God on the penitent, 320 Showed him the pathway to take, Sent His own messenger unto him During his prayers, who thus spake: "Know, for this oak sprang thy preference, Not without promptings divine; Lo! take the knife thou hast slaughtered with, Fell it, and grace shall be thine. "Yea, though the task prove laborious, Great shall the recompense be, Let but the tree fall, and verily 330 Thou from thy load shalt be free." Vast was the giant's circumference; Praying, his task he begins, Works with the tool of atrociousness, Offers amends for his sins. Glory he sang to the Trinity, Scraped the hard wood with his blade. Years passed away. Though he tarried not, Slow was the progress he made. 'Gainst such a mighty antagonist 340 How could he hope to prevail? Only a Samson could vanquish it, Not an old man, spent and frail. Doubt, as he worked, began plaguing him: Once of a voice came the sound, "Heh, old man, say what thy purpose is?" Crossing himself he looked round. There, Pan[58] Glukhóvsky was watching him On his brave Arab astride, Rich was the Pan, of high family, 350 Known in the whole countryside. Many cruel deeds were ascribed to him, Filled were his subjects with hate, So the old hermit to caution him Told him his own sorry fate. "Ho!" laughed Glukhóvsky, derisively, "Hope of salvation's not mine; These are the things that I estimate- Women, gold, honour, and wine. "My life, old man, is the only one; 360 Many the serfs that I keep; What though I waste, hang, and torture them You should but see how I sleep!" Lo! to the hermit, by miracle, Wrath a great strength did impart, Straight on Glukhóvsky he flung himself, Buried the knife in his heart. Scarce had the Pan, in his agony, Sunk to the blood-sodden ground, Crashed the great tree, and lay subjugate, Trembled the earth at the sound. 371 Lo! and the sins of the anchorite Passed from his soul like a breath. "Let us pray God to incline to us, Slaves in the shadow of Death…."

О, да!!!❤

Amen ❤

you can tell he’s a true bass because he’s vladimir pasjukov

@@thomaso05 Indeed 😎

Царствие небесное 🙏 Как я жалею, что поздно услышала его, как жалею!!😢😢

Vladimir Miller tops it think.

@@denismckay4992 Yes, Denis. I am totally in agreement.

Personally, I fhnd Mr. Pasjukov performance more complrte - warmer and gsntler - it truly feels ljke he is telling us this story, njt just singing a song.

I totally agree, Pasyukovs performance for me is the best.

Sadly, not. Searched, failed. If anyone knows differently I'd be truly delighted. YT better than nothing but cd is certainly better.

Better known as the twelve robbers - well documented ....

auf yoo tube. Don Kosaken Chor: Die zwölf Räuber." auf deutsch

​@@johannesgrosser3120найду обязательно!🎉