Classic Poem

O WOEFUL fate
For unhappy Tchyka!
Which brought up children
Beside the broad road—

Ki-hi! Ki-hi!

She fled on high—
Is it time for her
To fall into the sea?

Ki-hi! Ki-hi!

Ripe is the rye—
The harvest has come—
The Harvesters reap
And her nestlings take.

Ki-hi! Ki-hi!

The Tchyka flutters
Beating her wings.
Why should she fly,
Why should she cry.

Ki-hi! Ki-hi?

How should she not cry
With wild flutterings?
“My brood is so young,
And a mother am I.”

Ki-hi! Ki-hi!

“O little ones, where
Shall I hide you all?
Mus.t I drown myself,
Be killed in my fall?

Ki-hi! Ki-hi.”

Unhappy Tchyka!
O woeful fate!
Nest by the road
Left desolate.

Ki-hi! Ki-hi!

And the Harvesters passed
And flung her by,
Flung away Tchyka,
Vain her cry—

“Ki-hi! Ki-hi!”

Fly to the Meadows, Tchyka, fly!
They took thy brood;
Thy nestlings young
Are the harvesters' food.