From ancient times our feud begins.

At Azoff once, the whole night long,

In royal tent the savage Tsar

Kept noisy feast, "he goblets, filled

With sparkling wine, went gaily round,

In suit with freest jest and speech.

Some ill-considered word I spoke;

The younger guests looked on with awe;

The Tsar grew hot with wrath, down dashed

His cup, and seized me by the beard,

And swore to vent his sov'reign rage.

My fruitless anger I subdued,

But in my heart I vowed revenge.

As warm her child a mother keeps

Within her womb, that vow I nursed.

The hour has struck. Till his last day,

Of me remembrance will he keep.

To him I am an eyesore keen,

A canker in his crown's fresh leaves.

His herited domains, his life's

Best, dearest hour he would forego,

Once more Mazeppa by the beard

To hold. But let us not lose hope.

The morn decides who victor proves.

He ceased, and soon the traitor false

Closed fast his heavy eyes in sleep.

The russet sky is streaked with dawn.

Along the vales, along the hills,

The rumbling cannons raise thick clouds

Of dust, that high ascend and dim

The first, faint rays of early morn.

The troops close up in serried ranks;

Bayonets cold are shouldered fast;