To-morrow morn he's doomed to die

For him the scaffold has no dread,

And life has naught he need regret;

Nor fears he death, the wished-for sleep,

The sleep that rests the worried flesh.

But, righteous God! to be thus gagged,

And crushed beneath a villain's feet,

Like some brute beast to slaughter led!

The Tsar to make him Hetman's game,

That he, false traitor to the Tsar,

May boast and triumph in his fall!

To lose his life, and with it fame!

To bring his friend to shame and death,

And hear him, guiltless, curse his name!

To meet his foe's triumphant look,

As when he lays his head on block!

Be thrown into the arms of death,

Ere he bequeath to kinsman sure

The sacred task of vengeance keen!

Poltava dear in dream he sees;

Its wonted group of household friends,

The happy days of wealth and ease,

The songs his daughter loved to sing,

The ancient home where he was born,

The friendly scene of all his joys,

Where he had known hard toil and sleep,

And all that he had cast away,

For what?

In rusty lock is heard

The grating key, and, roused from dreams,

The wretched captive thinks: 'Tis he,

My guide, along the path of blood,

To hold up high the cross divine,