Trenches along the foot of the mountain—
They took Morozenko on Sunday morning.
The Tartars nor slashed him, nor pierced him with spears;
They tore out the heart from the white, white breast,
And they led him to Savour-Mohyla's height:
“Look thou, O son of the foe, down there!
Look on thine Ukraine stretching far!”
They set him down on the yellow sands,
And they took off from him a red, red shirt.

Oi, Moroze, Morozenko!
Thou glorious Cossack.
All Ukraine laments thee,
O brave Morozenko!
Much more thy bold army,
O glorious Cossack!

On the way to the town Morozikha wept—
Sore wept Morozikha for her son.

“Don't cry, Morozikha, don't be sad.
Come with us Cossacks to drink wine-mead.”

“Drink your good health, if drink you would,
But around my head misfortune flies.
Drink your good health, if drink you may. . . .
Oi, where does he fight, my son, my son!
Does he fight with the Tartars, one by one?”

“Don't cry, Morozikha, don't be sad;
Come with us Cossacks to look on. . . .
For see! A horse walks behind a wagon,
A bloody wagon it walks behind.
It carries your glorious Moroze,
The white flesh cut, the brave head broken,
The face is covered with red kitayka.…”

Oi, Moroze, Morozenko!
Thou glorious Cossack—
All Ukraine shall weep
And mourn for thee.