BEFORE POLTAVA
When the Swedish King, Charles XII., was defeated by Peter the Great
(Song ascribed to the Hetman Mazeppa[[20]])
O woeful fate
For unhappy Tchyka![[21]]
Which brought up children
Beside the broad road—
Ki-hi! Ki-hi!
She fled on high—
Is it time for her
To fall into the sea?
Ki-hi! Ki-hi!
Ripe is the rye—
The harvest has come—
The Harvesters reap
And her nestlings take.
Ki-hi! Ki-hi!
The Tchyka flutters
Beating her wings.
Why should she fly,
Why should she cry
Ki-hi! Ki-hi?
How should she not cry
With wild flutterings?
“My brood is so young,
And a mother am I.”
Ki-hi! Ki-hi!
“O little ones, where
Shall I hide you all?
Must I drown myself,
Be killed in my fall?
Ki-hi! Ki-hi.”
Unhappy Tchyka!
O woeful fate!
Nest by the road
Left desolate.
Ki-hi! Ki-hi!
And the Harvesters passed
And flung her by,
Flung away Tchyka,
Vain her cry—
“Ki-hi! Ki-hi!”
Fly to the Meadows, Tchyka, fly!
They took thy brood;
Thy nestlings young
Are the harvesters’ food.
TIME OF TARTAR INVASION[[22]]
(Fragment)
Ukraina is sad for that she has no place to dwell in—
The Ordà trampled the little children with their steeds,
By the Horde were the old people carried away,
The rest flung they into slavery.
Who will take Ukraine under its wing
In so evil an hour?
Her land is torn in two,
Her children are broken in four parts,
Her visage is darkened; she is wan
Because of the evil deeds of the Tartars.
THE SONG OF BIDA[[23]]
Bida, Bida drinks honey-horeevka
Not one day, not two days, not one night only.
The Sultan of Turkey has come to-day—
“What are you doing, young fellow, pray?”
“I drink,” said Bida, “not one day only,
Not two days, no—and my night’s not lonely.”
“If you stop drinking I pledge my oath
My daughter to you shall plight her troth.”
“She is not comely enough to see.
Faugh! Your religion is not for me.”
“Ho there, my men! Just take this wretch,
Put a hook in his ribs and give him a stretch.”
O not one day, not two days only,
Not one night hangeth Bida lonely.
The Doub-tree seeth the Sultan come:
“Ha, Bida, art thou then quite dumb?”
“Nay,” said the rogue, “I see two trees,
Two pigeons perching at their ease.
“Your bow and arrow lend,” quoth he,
“And you shall sup right daintily.”
The weapon Bida’s right hand nears—
The Sultan’s pierced between the ears.
Freed, he has shot the Sultan’s wife,
Nor will he spare the daughter’s life.
“This was a king once,” Bida cries,
“But see how stiff and cold it lies!
“Well, as for me, I surely think
That I deserve another drink.”
Bida, Bida drinks honey-horeevka
Not one day, not two days, not one night only.