HISTORICAL SONGS
Bohuslav was Pan Kanovsky’s—Dancing there,Bonderivna—as the Pava[16]she was fair.Then he saw her, the wild pigeon, full of grace—And she felt upon her cheek his embrace.“Pan Kanovsky! You may take e’en my shoesOff my feet.... But I kiss whom I choose!”Then the good folk of the town whispered low:“If thou dost not haste away cometh woe!”Bonderivna’s o’er the bridge like the wind:She has left the village houses far behind.With drawn sabres two grim soldiers follow fastThrough the market-place ... poor pigeon! caught at last.Pan Kanovsky’s silver musket pointed straightAt her heart.... And she chose then her fate.“Bonderivna, tall and lovely, live with me,Or as dung upon the earth you shall be!”“Rather would I, Pan Kanovsky, fall and die,Than in arms I loathe, like yours, ever lie!”As she answered, so he fired—so she fell.And her father, watching, moaned: “It is well,“I die with thee, fairest maid of them all!”And he dashed his white head ’gainst the wall.Tolled the bells—wailing music cried aloud:“Bonderivna, earth for aye is thy shroud!”
Bohuslav was Pan Kanovsky’s—Dancing there,Bonderivna—as the Pava[16]she was fair.Then he saw her, the wild pigeon, full of grace—And she felt upon her cheek his embrace.“Pan Kanovsky! You may take e’en my shoesOff my feet.... But I kiss whom I choose!”Then the good folk of the town whispered low:“If thou dost not haste away cometh woe!”Bonderivna’s o’er the bridge like the wind:She has left the village houses far behind.With drawn sabres two grim soldiers follow fastThrough the market-place ... poor pigeon! caught at last.Pan Kanovsky’s silver musket pointed straightAt her heart.... And she chose then her fate.“Bonderivna, tall and lovely, live with me,Or as dung upon the earth you shall be!”“Rather would I, Pan Kanovsky, fall and die,Than in arms I loathe, like yours, ever lie!”As she answered, so he fired—so she fell.And her father, watching, moaned: “It is well,“I die with thee, fairest maid of them all!”And he dashed his white head ’gainst the wall.Tolled the bells—wailing music cried aloud:“Bonderivna, earth for aye is thy shroud!”
Bohuslav was Pan Kanovsky’s—Dancing there,Bonderivna—as the Pava[16]she was fair.
Bohuslav was Pan Kanovsky’s—Dancing there,
Bonderivna—as the Pava[16]she was fair.
Then he saw her, the wild pigeon, full of grace—And she felt upon her cheek his embrace.
Then he saw her, the wild pigeon, full of grace—
And she felt upon her cheek his embrace.
“Pan Kanovsky! You may take e’en my shoesOff my feet.... But I kiss whom I choose!”
“Pan Kanovsky! You may take e’en my shoes
Off my feet.... But I kiss whom I choose!”
Then the good folk of the town whispered low:“If thou dost not haste away cometh woe!”
Then the good folk of the town whispered low:
“If thou dost not haste away cometh woe!”
Bonderivna’s o’er the bridge like the wind:She has left the village houses far behind.
Bonderivna’s o’er the bridge like the wind:
She has left the village houses far behind.
With drawn sabres two grim soldiers follow fastThrough the market-place ... poor pigeon! caught at last.
With drawn sabres two grim soldiers follow fast
Through the market-place ... poor pigeon! caught at last.
Pan Kanovsky’s silver musket pointed straightAt her heart.... And she chose then her fate.
Pan Kanovsky’s silver musket pointed straight
At her heart.... And she chose then her fate.
“Bonderivna, tall and lovely, live with me,Or as dung upon the earth you shall be!”
“Bonderivna, tall and lovely, live with me,
Or as dung upon the earth you shall be!”
“Rather would I, Pan Kanovsky, fall and die,Than in arms I loathe, like yours, ever lie!”
“Rather would I, Pan Kanovsky, fall and die,
Than in arms I loathe, like yours, ever lie!”
As she answered, so he fired—so she fell.And her father, watching, moaned: “It is well,
As she answered, so he fired—so she fell.
And her father, watching, moaned: “It is well,
“I die with thee, fairest maid of them all!”And he dashed his white head ’gainst the wall.
“I die with thee, fairest maid of them all!”
And he dashed his white head ’gainst the wall.
Tolled the bells—wailing music cried aloud:“Bonderivna, earth for aye is thy shroud!”
Tolled the bells—wailing music cried aloud:
“Bonderivna, earth for aye is thy shroud!”
MARUSYA BOHUSLAVKA(Duma)
On the Black Sea,On a white rock,Stood a stone prison:Seven hundred Cossacks,Unfortunate ones,In this dungeon layThese thirty yearsSeeing not God’s world,Nor the righteous sun upon their eyes:(“Almighty God,Save us, wretched ones,From hard captivity,From the Mohammedan faith!Send us forth to the bright stars,To the peaceful waters,To the joyful land,The Christian world.Hear us, O God, in this our prayer!”)To them the captive maiden,Marusya Bohuslavka, Daughter of the Priest,Came,And said unto them:“Hai, Cossacks!Ye unfortunate captives,Tell me—what day is it in Ukraine now?”“Hai, captive maiden, Marusya Bohuslavka!How may we know what day it is in Ukraine?Are we not thirty years in captivity,Seeing not God’s world,Nor the blessed sun upon our eyes?Because of this we know not what day it is in Ukraine now.”Then the captive maid, Marusya Bohuslavka, Daughter of the Priest,Said unto the Cossacks:“Oi, Cossacks, ye unfortunates!To-day in our land is Easter Even,And to-morrow is the holy feast day of Easter!”They bowed their white faces to the groundAnd cursed her, Marusya, the captive maid:“May God give thee, Daughter of the Priest,Neither fortune nor happy fateSince thou it was who told us what day had dawned in Ukraine!”“Oi, Cossacks! ye unfortunate captives,Swear not, curse not me:When our Turkish Pasha goes to the MosqueThen will I come to the dungeonAnd I will throw wide the doorAnd release you all—unfortunate.”On the first day of Easter,When the Turkish Pasha went to the Mosque,He gave the keys to the captive maid,Marusya Bohuslavka, Daughter of the Priest.She came and freed the captives,And said unto them,“Oi, Cossacks!I say unto you—do what is right;Flee to the cities of Ukraine.But, I entreat you, pass not byThe town of Bohuslav.See my mother and father;Tell my father to sell not his herds,To disperse not his wealth,To heap up no more moneyTo free me from captivity,Because I have become a Turk—Mohammedan—For Turkish comfort, good life—unhappy pleasure!”
On the Black Sea,On a white rock,Stood a stone prison:Seven hundred Cossacks,Unfortunate ones,In this dungeon layThese thirty yearsSeeing not God’s world,Nor the righteous sun upon their eyes:(“Almighty God,Save us, wretched ones,From hard captivity,From the Mohammedan faith!Send us forth to the bright stars,To the peaceful waters,To the joyful land,The Christian world.Hear us, O God, in this our prayer!”)To them the captive maiden,Marusya Bohuslavka, Daughter of the Priest,Came,And said unto them:“Hai, Cossacks!Ye unfortunate captives,Tell me—what day is it in Ukraine now?”“Hai, captive maiden, Marusya Bohuslavka!How may we know what day it is in Ukraine?Are we not thirty years in captivity,Seeing not God’s world,Nor the blessed sun upon our eyes?Because of this we know not what day it is in Ukraine now.”Then the captive maid, Marusya Bohuslavka, Daughter of the Priest,Said unto the Cossacks:“Oi, Cossacks, ye unfortunates!To-day in our land is Easter Even,And to-morrow is the holy feast day of Easter!”They bowed their white faces to the groundAnd cursed her, Marusya, the captive maid:“May God give thee, Daughter of the Priest,Neither fortune nor happy fateSince thou it was who told us what day had dawned in Ukraine!”“Oi, Cossacks! ye unfortunate captives,Swear not, curse not me:When our Turkish Pasha goes to the MosqueThen will I come to the dungeonAnd I will throw wide the doorAnd release you all—unfortunate.”On the first day of Easter,When the Turkish Pasha went to the Mosque,He gave the keys to the captive maid,Marusya Bohuslavka, Daughter of the Priest.She came and freed the captives,And said unto them,“Oi, Cossacks!I say unto you—do what is right;Flee to the cities of Ukraine.But, I entreat you, pass not byThe town of Bohuslav.See my mother and father;Tell my father to sell not his herds,To disperse not his wealth,To heap up no more moneyTo free me from captivity,Because I have become a Turk—Mohammedan—For Turkish comfort, good life—unhappy pleasure!”
On the Black Sea,On a white rock,Stood a stone prison:Seven hundred Cossacks,Unfortunate ones,In this dungeon layThese thirty yearsSeeing not God’s world,Nor the righteous sun upon their eyes:
On the Black Sea,
On a white rock,
Stood a stone prison:
Seven hundred Cossacks,
Unfortunate ones,
In this dungeon lay
These thirty years
Seeing not God’s world,
Nor the righteous sun upon their eyes:
(“Almighty God,Save us, wretched ones,From hard captivity,From the Mohammedan faith!Send us forth to the bright stars,To the peaceful waters,To the joyful land,The Christian world.Hear us, O God, in this our prayer!”)
(“Almighty God,
Save us, wretched ones,
From hard captivity,
From the Mohammedan faith!
Send us forth to the bright stars,
To the peaceful waters,
To the joyful land,
The Christian world.
Hear us, O God, in this our prayer!”)
To them the captive maiden,Marusya Bohuslavka, Daughter of the Priest,Came,And said unto them:
To them the captive maiden,
Marusya Bohuslavka, Daughter of the Priest,
Came,
And said unto them:
“Hai, Cossacks!Ye unfortunate captives,Tell me—what day is it in Ukraine now?”
“Hai, Cossacks!
Ye unfortunate captives,
Tell me—what day is it in Ukraine now?”
“Hai, captive maiden, Marusya Bohuslavka!How may we know what day it is in Ukraine?Are we not thirty years in captivity,Seeing not God’s world,Nor the blessed sun upon our eyes?Because of this we know not what day it is in Ukraine now.”
“Hai, captive maiden, Marusya Bohuslavka!
How may we know what day it is in Ukraine?
Are we not thirty years in captivity,
Seeing not God’s world,
Nor the blessed sun upon our eyes?
Because of this we know not what day it is in Ukraine now.”
Then the captive maid, Marusya Bohuslavka, Daughter of the Priest,Said unto the Cossacks:“Oi, Cossacks, ye unfortunates!To-day in our land is Easter Even,And to-morrow is the holy feast day of Easter!”
Then the captive maid, Marusya Bohuslavka, Daughter of the Priest,
Said unto the Cossacks:
“Oi, Cossacks, ye unfortunates!
To-day in our land is Easter Even,
And to-morrow is the holy feast day of Easter!”
They bowed their white faces to the groundAnd cursed her, Marusya, the captive maid:“May God give thee, Daughter of the Priest,Neither fortune nor happy fateSince thou it was who told us what day had dawned in Ukraine!”
They bowed their white faces to the ground
And cursed her, Marusya, the captive maid:
“May God give thee, Daughter of the Priest,
Neither fortune nor happy fate
Since thou it was who told us what day had dawned in Ukraine!”
“Oi, Cossacks! ye unfortunate captives,Swear not, curse not me:When our Turkish Pasha goes to the MosqueThen will I come to the dungeonAnd I will throw wide the doorAnd release you all—unfortunate.”
“Oi, Cossacks! ye unfortunate captives,
Swear not, curse not me:
When our Turkish Pasha goes to the Mosque
Then will I come to the dungeon
And I will throw wide the door
And release you all—unfortunate.”
On the first day of Easter,When the Turkish Pasha went to the Mosque,He gave the keys to the captive maid,Marusya Bohuslavka, Daughter of the Priest.She came and freed the captives,And said unto them,“Oi, Cossacks!I say unto you—do what is right;Flee to the cities of Ukraine.But, I entreat you, pass not byThe town of Bohuslav.See my mother and father;Tell my father to sell not his herds,To disperse not his wealth,To heap up no more moneyTo free me from captivity,Because I have become a Turk—Mohammedan—For Turkish comfort, good life—unhappy pleasure!”
On the first day of Easter,
When the Turkish Pasha went to the Mosque,
He gave the keys to the captive maid,
Marusya Bohuslavka, Daughter of the Priest.
She came and freed the captives,
And said unto them,
“Oi, Cossacks!
I say unto you—do what is right;
Flee to the cities of Ukraine.
But, I entreat you, pass not by
The town of Bohuslav.
See my mother and father;
Tell my father to sell not his herds,
To disperse not his wealth,
To heap up no more money
To free me from captivity,
Because I have become a Turk—Mohammedan—
For Turkish comfort, good life—unhappy pleasure!”
AKHMET III. AND THE ZAPOROGIANS
S. Rudansky(The letter written by the Cossacks to the Sultan is in a museum in Russia)
S. Rudansky(The letter written by the Cossacks to the Sultan is in a museum in Russia)
S. Rudansky
(The letter written by the Cossacks to the Sultan is in a museum in Russia)
In the year 1600, in that God’s year,A letter came from AkhmetTo our Zaporogie:“I, Sultan, the son of Mohammed,The grandson of the one God,The brother of the CrescentAnd even of the Sun;Knight strong and great,King of Kings,Champion of all the world,And Tzar of Tzars:Tzar of Constantinople,Tzar of Macedonia,Greece, Serbia, Moldavia;Tzar of Babylon, Podolia and Halych,And glorious Krimea:Tzar of Egypt, Arabia, Jerusalem,The Keeper of the Tomb in JerusalemAnd of your God;I am the Sorrow and the HelpOf all Christian men—I say to ye, Cossacks,Surrender!Or expect no good from me.”In the same year the ZaporogiansRead the LetterAnd said to their foe, the Sultan:“Thou, Sultan, art the devil’s son,The grandson of Haspid[17]himself,And thou, a hornèd chort[18]!“Thou art but a wretched inn-keeperIn Constantinople;A Macedonian brewer,Greek and Moldavian swine,And Babylonian blacksmith;“Thou oppressor of Serbia and Podolia,Krimean parrot, Egyptian swine-herd;Owl of Jerusalem!No help of Christians art thou, but a fool;No protector of our God.Thou art not worthy to kiss us anywhere—Nor worthy to hold our Zaporogie.“We shall fight theeBy land and sea!We do not fear thee,Thou son of a dog!Such is our answer!“We know not what year this may be,Because we have no calendars in our Seech—Our ‘Meassiatz’[19]is now in the heaven;This day is the same day as with you.Then, Turks, after these wordsTry to take us!”
In the year 1600, in that God’s year,A letter came from AkhmetTo our Zaporogie:“I, Sultan, the son of Mohammed,The grandson of the one God,The brother of the CrescentAnd even of the Sun;Knight strong and great,King of Kings,Champion of all the world,And Tzar of Tzars:Tzar of Constantinople,Tzar of Macedonia,Greece, Serbia, Moldavia;Tzar of Babylon, Podolia and Halych,And glorious Krimea:Tzar of Egypt, Arabia, Jerusalem,The Keeper of the Tomb in JerusalemAnd of your God;I am the Sorrow and the HelpOf all Christian men—I say to ye, Cossacks,Surrender!Or expect no good from me.”In the same year the ZaporogiansRead the LetterAnd said to their foe, the Sultan:“Thou, Sultan, art the devil’s son,The grandson of Haspid[17]himself,And thou, a hornèd chort[18]!“Thou art but a wretched inn-keeperIn Constantinople;A Macedonian brewer,Greek and Moldavian swine,And Babylonian blacksmith;“Thou oppressor of Serbia and Podolia,Krimean parrot, Egyptian swine-herd;Owl of Jerusalem!No help of Christians art thou, but a fool;No protector of our God.Thou art not worthy to kiss us anywhere—Nor worthy to hold our Zaporogie.“We shall fight theeBy land and sea!We do not fear thee,Thou son of a dog!Such is our answer!“We know not what year this may be,Because we have no calendars in our Seech—Our ‘Meassiatz’[19]is now in the heaven;This day is the same day as with you.Then, Turks, after these wordsTry to take us!”
In the year 1600, in that God’s year,A letter came from AkhmetTo our Zaporogie:“I, Sultan, the son of Mohammed,The grandson of the one God,The brother of the CrescentAnd even of the Sun;Knight strong and great,King of Kings,Champion of all the world,And Tzar of Tzars:Tzar of Constantinople,Tzar of Macedonia,Greece, Serbia, Moldavia;Tzar of Babylon, Podolia and Halych,And glorious Krimea:Tzar of Egypt, Arabia, Jerusalem,The Keeper of the Tomb in JerusalemAnd of your God;I am the Sorrow and the HelpOf all Christian men—I say to ye, Cossacks,Surrender!Or expect no good from me.”
In the year 1600, in that God’s year,
A letter came from Akhmet
To our Zaporogie:
“I, Sultan, the son of Mohammed,
The grandson of the one God,
The brother of the Crescent
And even of the Sun;
Knight strong and great,
King of Kings,
Champion of all the world,
And Tzar of Tzars:
Tzar of Constantinople,
Tzar of Macedonia,
Greece, Serbia, Moldavia;
Tzar of Babylon, Podolia and Halych,
And glorious Krimea:
Tzar of Egypt, Arabia, Jerusalem,
The Keeper of the Tomb in Jerusalem
And of your God;
I am the Sorrow and the Help
Of all Christian men—
I say to ye, Cossacks,
Surrender!
Or expect no good from me.”
In the same year the ZaporogiansRead the LetterAnd said to their foe, the Sultan:“Thou, Sultan, art the devil’s son,The grandson of Haspid[17]himself,And thou, a hornèd chort[18]!
In the same year the Zaporogians
Read the Letter
And said to their foe, the Sultan:
“Thou, Sultan, art the devil’s son,
The grandson of Haspid[17]himself,
And thou, a hornèd chort[18]!
“Thou art but a wretched inn-keeperIn Constantinople;A Macedonian brewer,Greek and Moldavian swine,And Babylonian blacksmith;
“Thou art but a wretched inn-keeper
In Constantinople;
A Macedonian brewer,
Greek and Moldavian swine,
And Babylonian blacksmith;
“Thou oppressor of Serbia and Podolia,Krimean parrot, Egyptian swine-herd;Owl of Jerusalem!No help of Christians art thou, but a fool;No protector of our God.Thou art not worthy to kiss us anywhere—Nor worthy to hold our Zaporogie.
“Thou oppressor of Serbia and Podolia,
Krimean parrot, Egyptian swine-herd;
Owl of Jerusalem!
No help of Christians art thou, but a fool;
No protector of our God.
Thou art not worthy to kiss us anywhere—
Nor worthy to hold our Zaporogie.
“We shall fight theeBy land and sea!We do not fear thee,Thou son of a dog!Such is our answer!
“We shall fight thee
By land and sea!
We do not fear thee,
Thou son of a dog!
Such is our answer!
“We know not what year this may be,Because we have no calendars in our Seech—Our ‘Meassiatz’[19]is now in the heaven;This day is the same day as with you.Then, Turks, after these wordsTry to take us!”
“We know not what year this may be,
Because we have no calendars in our Seech—
Our ‘Meassiatz’[19]is now in the heaven;
This day is the same day as with you.
Then, Turks, after these words
Try to take us!”
When the Swedish King, Charles XII., was defeated by Peter the Great(Song ascribed to the Hetman Mazeppa[20])
When the Swedish King, Charles XII., was defeated by Peter the Great(Song ascribed to the Hetman Mazeppa[20])
When the Swedish King, Charles XII., was defeated by Peter the Great
(Song ascribed to the Hetman Mazeppa[20])
O woeful fateFor unhappy Tchyka![21]Which brought up childrenBeside the broad road—Ki-hi! Ki-hi!She fled on high—Is it time for herTo fall into the sea?Ki-hi! Ki-hi!Ripe is the rye—The harvest has come—The Harvesters reapAnd her nestlings take.Ki-hi! Ki-hi!The Tchyka fluttersBeating her wings.Why should she fly,Why should she cryKi-hi! Ki-hi?How should she not cryWith wild flutterings?“My brood is so young,And a mother am I.”Ki-hi! Ki-hi!“O little ones, whereShall 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 roadLeft desolate.Ki-hi! Ki-hi!And the Harvesters passedAnd 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 youngAre the harvesters’ food.
O woeful fateFor unhappy Tchyka![21]Which brought up childrenBeside the broad road—Ki-hi! Ki-hi!She fled on high—Is it time for herTo fall into the sea?Ki-hi! Ki-hi!Ripe is the rye—The harvest has come—The Harvesters reapAnd her nestlings take.Ki-hi! Ki-hi!The Tchyka fluttersBeating her wings.Why should she fly,Why should she cryKi-hi! Ki-hi?How should she not cryWith wild flutterings?“My brood is so young,And a mother am I.”Ki-hi! Ki-hi!“O little ones, whereShall 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 roadLeft desolate.Ki-hi! Ki-hi!And the Harvesters passedAnd 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 youngAre the harvesters’ food.
O woeful fateFor unhappy Tchyka![21]Which brought up childrenBeside the broad road—Ki-hi! Ki-hi!
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 herTo fall into the sea?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 reapAnd her nestlings take.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 fluttersBeating her wings.Why should she fly,Why should she cryKi-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 cryWith wild flutterings?“My brood is so young,And a mother am I.”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, whereShall I hide you all?Must I drown myself,Be killed in my fall?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 roadLeft desolate.Ki-hi! Ki-hi!
Unhappy Tchyka!
O woeful fate!
Nest by the road
Left desolate.
Ki-hi! Ki-hi!
And the Harvesters passedAnd flung her by,Flung away Tchyka,Vain her cry—“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 youngAre the harvesters’ food.
Fly to the Meadows, Tchyka, fly!
They took thy brood;
Thy nestlings young
Are the harvesters’ food.
TIME OF TARTAR INVASION[22]
(Fragment)
(Fragment)
(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 wingIn so evil an hour?Her land is torn in two,Her children are broken in four parts,Her visage is darkened; she is wanBecause of the evil deeds of the Tartars.
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 wingIn so evil an hour?Her land is torn in two,Her children are broken in four parts,Her visage is darkened; she is wanBecause of the evil deeds of the Tartars.
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.
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 wingIn so evil an hour?Her land is torn in two,Her children are broken in four parts,Her visage is darkened; she is wanBecause of the evil deeds of the Tartars.
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.
Bida, Bida drinks honey-horeevkaNot 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 oathMy 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 thinkThat I deserve another drink.”Bida, Bida drinks honey-horeevkaNot one day, not two days, not one night only.
Bida, Bida drinks honey-horeevkaNot 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 oathMy 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 thinkThat I deserve another drink.”Bida, Bida drinks honey-horeevkaNot one day, not two days, not one night only.
Bida, Bida drinks honey-horeevkaNot one day, not two days, not one night only.
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?”
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.”
“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 oathMy daughter to you shall plight her troth.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.
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?”
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.
“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.”
“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.
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.
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!
“This was a king once,” Bida cries,
“But see how stiff and cold it lies!
“Well, as for me, I surely thinkThat I deserve another drink.”
“Well, as for me, I surely think
That I deserve another drink.”
Bida, Bida drinks honey-horeevkaNot one day, not two days, not one night only.
Bida, Bida drinks honey-horeevka
Not one day, not two days, not one night only.