What numbers of Poles now lie slain.
Hai, Perebiynees! But seven hundred
Cossacks he asked for that day.
Then he with sabres smote the Poles’ heads off—
The rest swept the river away.
Drink ye swamp water, Oi! all ye Poles now—
Quench thirst at each rain-pond ye see....
And once ye were drinking, in our Ukraina,
Wine and sweet mead flowing free!
Each Polish “Pan” is lost now in wonder;