_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.