Little birch so lonely was standing
In the field a curly one was standing
Lonely, lonely was standing
Lonely, lonely was 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