Long lingers the night;
The glow of sunset has waned.
The mists enshroud the plains
The warbling of the nightingale
Has died away.
The chattering of daws
Has arisen.
The Russians have barred
The boundless plains
With their scarlet shields,
For themselves seeking honour,
And for their prince-glory.

Early on a Friday morn
They trampled underfoot
The pagan Polovets host,
And scattering like arrows
Over the field,
They whirled away
The fair Polovets maidens
And with them gold and satin,
And precious samite.
With cloaks, and mantles, and coats of fur
And many a costly Polovets tissue
They bridged over
The swamps and the mire.
The scarlet banner,
>The white standard,
The scarlet pennant,
The silver shaft,
Were for the fearless
Son of Svyatoslav!

Oleg's brave brood
Slumbers on the battlefield.
Far, far has it flown!
It was not born to be worsted
By the falcon,
Nor by the gerfalcon,
Nor by you, o black raven,
Pagan Polovets!
Gza speeds onward
Like the grey wolf,
Konchak breaks a trail for him
To the great Don!

Full early on the morrow
A blood-red dawn foretells the day.
Black clouds come up from the sea,
Striving to overcast the four suns.
Blue lightning quivers within them,
Mighty thunder shall be heard,
A rain of arrows shall rain
From beyond the great Don.
Spears shall be shattered there,
Swords shall be blunted there,
On Polovets helmets,
On the Kayala river,
By the great Don!

O Russian land!
Far are you now beyond the hills!

Now the winds,
Those grandsons of Stribog,
Blow arrows up from the sea
Upon Igor's valiant host.
The earth rumbles,
The rivers run turbid,
Dust overspreads the plains,
The banners clamour:
The Polovtsi come-
From the Don, from the sea,
On all sides they beset
The Russian host!
The spawn of the Evil One
Have barred the fields
With their yells,
And the fearless Russians-
With their scarlet shields.

O Vsevolod, you fearless bull!
You stand at bay,
You spray with arrows
The host of the foe,
Your swords of steel clang
Upon their helmets.
Wherever, o bull, you have galloped
With your golden helmet glittering,
There pagan Polovets heads lie thick,
Their Avar helmets shattered
By your swords of tempered steel,
By you, o furious bull,
O Vsevolod!
What wound, o my brethren, can cause dread to him,
Forgetful of his high estate, his life,
The city of Chernigov,
The golden throne of his father,
The ways and wonts
Of his dear bride,
The fair daughter of Gleb!