O where are you, my sylvan reed,
Whose notes of sadness sweetly ring;
And over the heart of Georgia's son
'Neath northern skies their music fling?

When shepherds play on tnee and send
Your crystal song o'er vale and hill,
Your smiles aspire to heavens blue;
In blackest hell your sobbings thrill.

As soul to soul my thoughts entwine
About your voice and ringing song,
My Georgia's grief and bitter fate
Your sighs recall in grievous throng.

At times the Turks and Tartar hordes
Made Georgia weep and wail in woe;
And even the Scythians, wild and fierce
Profaned its peace with savage blow.

My pipe of slender reed, your voice
Bids my lone heart to sob. Then why
Have I the wish to hear your song
And for my native land to cry?

At times your clear and soothing notes
To rest and peace my soul compel;
Or all my maddening thoughts and dreams
Your flingest down to burn in hell.

In gallant strife against the foe
The Georgian true I then behold:
I hear his cry: 'Advance and strike!'
I see his charge, so swift and bold.

Your soothing voice, my sylvan reed,
So murmuring sad, so joyous sweet,
O'erfloods my soul with longings wild,
And makes my heart with gladness beat.

The Georgian soul in you does moan,
You strain the Georgian bosom warm.
And deeds and glories of our past
In fond remembrance round you swarm

But ah, alas, my pipe of reed,
That whistles sweet over dell and lea
Let shepherds only hear your sighs
For now there's none to list to you.