Yonder along the Butcher’s street, Out to the field through the Butcher’s gate, They are leading a prince and peer. Priests and deacons are walking before, In their hands a great book open; Then there follows a soldier troop, With their drawn sabres flashing bright. At his right the headsman goes, Holds in his hand the keen-edged sword; At his left goes his sister dear, And she weeps as the torrent pours, And she sobs as the fountains gush. Comforting speaks her brother to her: “Weep not, weep not, my sister dear! Weep not away thy eyes so clear, Dim not, O dim not thy face so fair, Make not heavy thy joyous heart! Say, for what is it thou weepest so? Is ’t for my goods, my inheritance? Is ’t for my lands, so rich and wide? Is ’t for my silver, or is ’t for my gold, Or dost thou weep for my life alone?” “Ah, thou, my light, my brother dear! Not for thy goods or inheritance, Not for thy lands, so rich and wide, Is ’t that my eyes are weeping so; Not for thy silver and not for thy gold, ’Tis for thy life I am weeping so.” “Ah, thou, my light, my sister sweet! Thou mayest weep, but it won’t avail; Thou mayest beg, but ’tis all in vain; Pray to the Tsar, but he will not yield. Merciful truly was God to me, Truly gracious to me the Tsar, So he commanded my traitor head Off should be hewn from my shoulders strong.” Now the scaffold the prince ascends, Calmly mounts to the place of death; Prays to his Great Redeemer there, Humbly salutes the crowd around: “Farewell, world, and thou people of God! Pray for my sins that burden me sore!” Scarce had the people ventured then On him to look, when his traitor head Off was hewn from his shoulders strong. --From Talvi’s _Historical View_. THE STORMING OF ÁZOV The poor soldiers have no rest, Neither night nor day! Late at evening the word was given To the soldiers gay; All night long their weapons cleaning, Were the soldiers good; Ready in the morning dawn, All in ranks they stood. Not a golden trumpet is it, That now sounds so clear; Nor the silver flute’s tone is it, That thou now dost hear. ’Tis the great White Tsar who speaketh, ’Tis our father dear. “Come, my princes, my boyárs, Nobles, great and small! Now consider and invent Good advice, ye all, How the soonest, how the quickest, Fort Ázov may fall!” The boyárs, they stood in silence,-- And our father dear, He again began to speak, In his eye a tear: “Come, my children, good dragoons, And my soldiers all, Now consider and invent Brave advice, ye all, How the soonest, how the quickest, Fort Ázov may fall!”