On the glorious steppes of Sarátov, Below the city of Sarátov, And above the city of Kamýshin, The Cossacks, the free people, assembled; They collected, the brothers, in a ring; The Cossacks of the Don, the Grebén, and the Yaík, Their Hetman was Yermák, the son of Timoféy; Their captain was Asbáshka, the son of Lavrénti. They planned a little plan. “The summer, the warm summer is going, And the cold winter approaches, my brothers. Where, brothers, shall we spend the winter? If we go to the Yaík, it is a terrible passage; If we go to the Vólga, we shall be considered robbers; If we go to the city of Kazán, there is the Tsar-- The Tsar Iván Vasílevich, the Terrible. There he has great forces.” “There, Yermák, thou wilt be hanged, And we Cossacks shall be captured And shut up in strong prisons.” Yermák, the son of Timoféy, takes up his speech:-- “Pay attention, brothers, pay attention, And listen to me--Yermák! Let us spend the winter in Astrakhán; And when the fair Spring reveals herself, Then, brothers, let us go on a foray; Let us earn our wine before the terrible Tsar!” * * * * * “Ha, brothers, my brave Hetmans! Make for yourselves boats, Make the rowlocks of fir, Make the oars of pine! By the help of God we will go, brothers; Let us pass the steep mountains, Let us reach the infidel kingdom, Let us conquer the Siberian kingdom,-- That will please our Tsar, our master. I will myself go to the White Tsar, I shall put on a sable cloak, I shall make my submission to the White Tsar.” “Oh! thou art our hope, orthodox Tsar; Do not order me to be executed, but bid me say my say, Since I am Yermák, the son of Timoféy! I am the robber Hetman of the Don; ’Twas I went over the blue sea, Over the blue sea, the Caspian; And I it was who destroyed the ships; And now, our hope, our orthodox Tsar, I bring you my traitorous head, And with it I bring the empire of Siberia.” And the orthodox Tsar spoke; He spoke--the terrible Iván Vasílevich: “Ha! thou art Yermák, the son of Timoféy, Thou art the Hetman of the warriors of the Don. I pardon you and your band, I pardon you for your trusty service, And I give you the glorious gentle Don as an inheritance.” --From W. R. Morfill’s _Slavonic Literature_. THE BOYÁR’S EXECUTION “Thou, my head, alas! my head, Long hast served me, and well, my head; Full three-and-thirty summers long; Ever astride of my gallant steed, Never my foot from its stirrup drawn. But alas! thou hast gained, my head, Nothing of joy or other good; Nothing of honours or even thanks.”