Chapter I: Front Matter (1)

SONGS OF UKRAINA

_All rights reserved_

SONGS
_of_
UKRAINA
WITH RUTHENIAN POEMS

TRANSLATED BY

FLORENCE RANDAL LIVESAY

]

LONDON, PARIS & TORONTO
J. M. DENT & SONS LIMITED
NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO.
MCMXVI

CONTENTS

PAGAN SONGS— PAGE
Kupalo (Fragment) 21
Song to Vesnianka (Fragment) 23
Vesnianka—Children’s Song 23
Hyeevka—Song of the Woods 24

WEDDING SONG CYCLE—
The Wedding of Marusenka (I-XIII) 25

WEDDING SONGS—
Song of Departure—A Bride of Bukovina 36
Unplaiting the Hair 37
The Bride’s Song 38
The Bride 39
The Day before the Wedding 40

HISTORICAL SONGS—
Pan Kanovsky—Song of Feudalism 42
Marusya Bohuslavka (Duma) 44
Akhmet III. and the Zaporogians 47
Before Poltava 49
Time of Tartar Invasion (Fragment) 52
The Song of Bida 52

COSSACK SONGS—
Cossack Marching Song 55
Charge of the Cossacks 56
The Young Recruits 57
Mother and Son 58
The Captives 60
Cossack Marching Song 62
Song of Victory—1648 63
In Turkish Captivity 65
Lament for Morozenko 67

ROBBER SONGS—
The Death of Dobush 69
Song of the Oprishki (Outlaws) 74
The Haidamaky—“Knights of Vengeance” 75
Song of Karmelūk 76

TCHUMAK SONGS—
Khustina—The Betrothal Kerchief (Shevchenko) 78
The Penniless Tchumak 81

RHYTHMS—
Mother and Daughter 83
Burial of the Soldier 85
The Drunkard 86
Song of the Orphan 87
The Gift of a Ring 89

FOLK SONGS—
“My Field, My Field” (Fragment) 90
Song of the Cossack 91
I walked along the River Bank 92
Orphan Song 93
Song of Unhappy Woman 93
A Girl’s Song 94
O Wild Horses 95
The Daughter of the Witch (Variant) 96
Song of Vdovà—The Widow 98
The Two Lovers (Fragment) 99
The Broken Engagement 99
The Distant Sweetheart 100
The Enchantress 101
The Dying Soldier 102
The Orphan’s Wedding 104
Moonlight 106
On the Steppes 107
In the Garden beside the Water 109
Unrequited Love 110
The Oak 110
Night on the Road 112
Song of the Dance 113
Pigeons—The Lovers 114
Song from an Opera 115
The Maid to her Laggard Lover 116
The Tramp at the Inn 116
Little Petrus 118
Songs of the Poppy Harvest 119
Here is a Hill 120
“Girl o’ Mine” (Variant) 123
Yakimy 124
Grass rustling in the Breeze 126
Playing on the Flute was Ivan 128
The Kalina 130
As the Cherry glows in the Garden 131
In the Fields grows the Rye 132
Mela, farewell 133
“Kazhut Ludy” 136
By Dunai’s Waters 137
“I was born in a Fated Hour” 138
The Song of the Visits 140
“Wasylki”—Song of the Dance 141
Kalina—The Cranberry 143

OTHER POEMS—
Thoughts from a Prison (Shevchenko) 147
Topolia—The Poplar (Shevchenko) 148
Song from Exile (Rudansky) 156
The Ring (Vorobkievich) 158

POEMS BY FEDKOVICH—
Where Luck Lies 160
The Flute 161
Two Etchings: I. Holy Eve 164
II. In Church 164
The Recruit 165
The Handkerchief 167
Before Kastenedola 168
To M. D. 170

UKRAINIAN NATIONAL ANTHEM 172

SONGS OF UKRAINA

Ukrainian Song.... But do you know what the Ukraine is?

Where in Spring the warm wind breathes, bearing on its wings from “Earey” (Egypt) the myriads of grouse and other birds, and into the hearts of the people the paean of love; where the woods are carpeted with blue “prolisoks” and red “riast”; where Vesnianka, the “Lada” of Spring, with the assistance of vovkoolaks and spirits of the woods, is running through the forest scattering bloom, her song echoing over the whole country; where the sun is so bright and gay; where the willow tree in full blossom looks like a great yellow stack, orchards are white with cherry; where millions of nightingales sing all the night long—where Petrus so truly loves Natalka—

_There is the Ukraine._

Where in the Summer the Dnieper is carrying down its broad yellow waters to empty them into the bluish waves of the Black Sea; and upon the steeps of its mountainous right bank, like pyramids, the ancestral grave-hills stand, looking over the endless plains golden with ripening rye; where the little white huts of the villagers hide themselves in the green orchards of scarlet apples, yellow pears, purple prunes, musical with the humming of bees; where, beside a broad road, under a willow tree, a blind lirnik-beggar sits, singing a song of the vanished freedom; where the “grandsons” of that freedom mow the lush grass, with their scythes glistening in the hot sun, just as the sabres of their grandfathers flashed on the same field—

_There is the Ukraine._

Where in Autumn in the wood on the peaceful bank of a Dunai the hopvine with its gold and bronze covers the bared branches of ash trees; where on cranberry bushes the red bunches burn in the rays of the Autumn sun like a circlet of rubies; where Marusina walks in the wood picking the berries and calling upon her fated one in her songs; where in the fields, now umber-coloured, the herds of cattle graze; where the poplar rustles sadly with her leaves yet green over a lonesome grave—as a maiden deserted by her lover; where, when the leaves fall, the night-heaven is so darkly blue and the stars so bright—

_This is Ukraina._

Where in Winter Witch-Marina with snow white as swansdown covers the fields, making of them an endless white sea; where Frost-Moroze with its magic power changes fog into rime and sleet, transforms the forests into silver coral jungles of the undersea kingdom; where in gayety the people know how to spend the whole winter season, entertained by folk-drama; where hymns to the pagan goddess Lada are heard at Christmas;

Where the red foxes, seeking refuge in tall “ocherets,” or bulrushes, and hares lying in utter stillness on the hillocks, shall hear the stamping of horses’ hoofs, the baying of hounds and the sudden clamour of the horn—

_There is Ukraina._

Where on the summits of the Carpathians old oaks and pines murmur, and the native Hutzul in white embroidered shirt and red breeches plays on his trimbeeta amid his grazing flocks in the mountain meadow; where on a dark night thunder roars and the lightning plays on the white breasts of beech-trees; where Dobush sleeps with his robber Oprishki, in a rocky cave under the Chorna-Hora, waiting for the summons to arise once more against the enemies of the Ukraine—

_There is the Highland of the Ukrainian._

Where the southern prairies meet the waves of the Black Sea, and grey eagles circle in the heavens watching the numberless herds of sheep; where the Dnieper’s cataracts roar, dashing down to the Khortitsa Island, asking it: “Where are the banners of the hetmans and the cannons of old?” There, where a black cloud covers heaven from Lyman, the Mount of the Dnieper, in the semblance of the dragon of the fairy tales—

_There are the Zaporogian Steppes._

And the ages passed over the Ukraine.... “In the beginning” black-haired Scythians came from Ariastan to the Ukraine with their herds—later, the race was crossed with blue-eyed, white-haired Finns; both disappeared and the tall, dark brown-eyed, fair-haired Ukrainian arose, the beneficent gods Yoor and Lada nursing him in his cradle.

Mongolians came from Asia, and Ghingiz-Khan built his pyramids of men’s skulls.... And on the Steppes, on the Kalka river the brave Russichi barred the way to the Polovets, with scarlet shields, and all fell for the motherland. Still, the Mongolian waves rolling over the Ukrainian rock were unable to devastate Europe. The Khan turned back, civilisation was saved, but the Ukraine was covered with corpses, on whose bones Cossacks arose who again checked the Tartars. There in the Ukraine was Freedom personified by the Zaporogian Cossack, in blue zhupan and red breeches, mounted on his grey horse.

Seven feet deep is the black soil of Ukraina, bringing forth from one seed one hundred and twenty fold. Poles, Turks, and Muscovites began to press forward, eager to grasp the land flowing with milk and honey and bind her as a captive. Long centuries the sabre of the Cossack flashed beheading invaders from all parts of the world. At last it was shivered and broken!

Now naught is left of Ukraina save her songs—but in that song she still lives, engraved in the heart of the people. Let it be sung, and before your eyes you shall resurrect the dead centuries.

The Ukrainians sing their Kolady, Vesnianky, Kupalni—and the ancient gods of the Sun and Thunder are again alive, adversaries of Christianity.

The bride-maidens sing the wedding songs, and ancient days come back when a wild youth gathered a band of the boys of his tribe and raided another village to kidnap a maiden. All her relatives rose to defend her, and sometimes only after a bloody fight did the bridegroom carry his bride safely home. A thousand years passed, and only song was left to show that such barbarous days had ever been.

In the troublous days that followed, when the Cossacks ringed Ukraina with the terrible circle of their sabres, they sang of Freedom; and even now those songs will stir a man’s blood and make him long to leap on a horse and gallop over the broad steppes, “swift to the fields of Freedom.”

Moscow, Tartary, Lithuania, Poland, Turkey—what neighbours!—the Hetmans, wars and revolutions—at length the fall of Seech, the last stand of Ukrainian freedom—the whole Ukrainian history was put into song by the Kobzars, the rhapsodists, and if the Ukraine has lost her written history it is still preserved in her historical songs.

The period of bondage and feudalism began in 1771. The Cossacks had disappeared, but their place was taken by the avengers of the people’s sorrows—Robbers, Haidomaki, Oprishki—the Ukrainian Robin Hoods—and their deeds also are recorded in their songs. The bitter fate of the feudal slave sighs in the song of the Ukrainian woman—before, a free Cossachka, now the slave of her husband, with no rights of her own. Full of self-pity and sorrow are the “Songs of Unhappy Women.” The sons of Cossacks became Tchumaks and tramps; they wrote their songs on their broken hearts.... But eternal song, that of love, of the nightingale’s voice, and the cherry blossom, is the same everywhere—unchangeable—young, charming, immortal!

Italian songs are glorious, but the singing of the Ukrainian is also a precious pearl in the common treasury of mankind. It was born out of the beauty of the Ukraine, and it is beautiful; it was born on the steppes, and as the steppes it is wide; it was born in battles, and it is free; it was born of the tear of a lonesome girl, and it rends the heart; it was born of the thoughts of the Kobzars and its harmonies are pregnant with thoughts—

_This is Ukrainian Song._

PAUL CRATH.

NOTE BY TRANSLATOR

The Songs, alas! must lack their native music; of the land which evoked them Mr. Paul Crath has written with a poet’s pen. It remains for me just to say a few words about the people who sing the songs and (with one digression) I will quote a few extracts from French and Ukrainian essayists:—

“The Ukrainian is a race purely Slav, gay, chivalrous, made thoughtful
by its own steppes—a race of poets, musicians, artists who have fixed
for all time their national history in the songs of the people which
no centuries of oppression could silence. The singers—the
Kobzars—accompany themselves on the kobza while they sing the glories
of the Ukraine. All art with them is national, from the building of
their tiny huts to the embroideries which adorn their clothes and
which are distinguished for their originality all over the East.”

“Here is a people, one of the most numerous of Europe and nevertheless
one of the least known. They have not even an assured name. They are
called Little Russians to distinguish them from the mass of the
Russian people—they are called Ukrainian because they inhabit the
frontier between Poland and Russia; one of the branches (in Austrian
Galicia) bears the name of Ruthenian.... In the nineteenth century
this oppressed people revealed to the world the puissance of its
artistic gifts. The Ukrainians became the first singers of Europe; the
celebrated Russian music is the music of the Ukraine, and it is an
Ukrainian, Gogol, who has opened the way to the Russian romancers of
genius.”—CHARLES SEIGNOBOS, Professor at the Sorbonne.

“In the Russian Ukraine the nobles, descendants of the line of the
Cossacks, and the clergy had closely guarded the remembrance of the
grandeur, the glory, and the independence of the Ukraine. Living in
contact with a people which had preserved its language, songs, and
customs, they turned to it to know it better.... Collections of
popular songs by Maximovich, Dragomanov, Shesnevsky, Zerteleff, etc.,
began to be made around 1820 and in the second half of the nineteenth
century. Soon romantic poets found this field—Kvitka outstripped
George Sand and Auerbach.... Towards 1840 the great poet Shevchenko
(1814–1861) combined by his genius all that was most profound in
universal poetry with the genre of the popular poetry of the Ukraine.
A great poet and a great citizen, his name is sacred to all
Ukrainians.”

Mrs. E. L. Voynich has published six lyrics from the mass of this poet’s work, all of which is practically unknown to English readers. Many of his writings, however, are to be included in the “Slavonic Classics” now under way.

Immigrants, self-exiled, still sing, putting trivial incidents or dreadful affrays, happenings in their old villages, into legend and song. From several of these living in Winnipeg I obtained old ballads and folk-songs set to minor airs. Russalka on ironing days was a concert in herself! I remember how she told me the song made by a local poet in her old home when a faithless bride was murdered by her conscript lover. Anastasia could not wait three years—but the soldier came to her wedding.

This is the song:—

“From the other side of the hill
A stormy wind is blowing.
Would that I knew what my sweetheart is doing!
O my love, dost thou wish now to be mine?”

“Come then—for we may marry some day. But first of all thou must bring me next Sunday some flowers of Trezilie” (poisonous herb).

“I have a saddle horse in my stable—surely I will mount and ride to get the flowers. Very hard are they to get, very long is the way to the forest where they grow—yet shall I ride swiftly and get them for my love.”

“I went to the forest and found the Zilie between two elm trees. I dismounted and began to dig. Zuzula flew near and sang: ‘Spare your pains, young soldier, dig no more. Your sweetheart is fooling you, she weds another to-day.’

“Then I rode in haste till I reached the courtyard of her home. Her friends came to meet me, put my horse in the stable, gave me to eat and drink, invited me to the wedding dance.

“I did not come down to dance and drink. I came down to say two words only to my sweetheart.... With my right hand I took the hand of the bride; with my left I took my revolver and shot her.”

So his sweetheart fell between her dorohynki (bridesmaids), as a star
pales between two sunrise clouds.

Some of the poems included in this volume have appeared in _Poet Lore_ (Boston); _Poetry_ (Chicago); _The Craftsman_ (New York); _Everyman_ (Edinburgh); _Canada Monthly_ (London, Ontario); _University Magazine_ (Montreal). To the publishers of these magazines my thanks are due for permission to reproduce the poems in question. I would like to acknowledge gratefully the help given me in translation by MM. Paul Crath, Ivan Petrushevich, and A. Malofie.

FLORENCE RANDAL LIVESAY.

WINNIPEG,
_September 1916_.

PAGAN SONGS[1]

KUPALO[2]

(FRAGMENT)

I
On Ivan-Kupalo
Ivan was bathing.
And he fell into the water
On the Day of Kupalo.

II
Hai! On the Day of Ivan-Kupalo
A beautiful maid her fortune sought.
She plucked the flowers to make her garlands—
The Malva-flower and Lewbistok—
She strewed them on the river’s breast.

“Float, my wreath, with the wave’s swift flowing,
Straight to the window of my love—
Float to the heart of the one I love,
And bring good fortune with thee!”

The wreath is floating,
Carrying with it
The heart of the maid.
At the bend of the river,
’Tis swamped by the wave—
Kupalo, Kupalo,
No fortune gave!

That night the maiden
Trezilie[3] sought.
In the midnight hour
She dug them up.

She made a brew
In the dead of night,
And ere the dawn
The poison drank.

SONG TO VESNIANKA (SPRING)

(FRAGMENT)

O Lady Vesnianka,
Where didst thou spend the winter?

“In the forest, upon the oak,
I was spinning the thread for a shirt.”

· · · · ·

O Spring, the beauty! Vesnianka!
Fly to us with the sun.

VESNIANKA—CHILDREN’S SONG

Vesnianka came,
And brought Paradise.
All is blooming, everywhere.
Beauty in the meadows lies,
Joy is in the fields and air,
In the woods is Song.

Let us garlands make
On Vesnianka’s Day.
Join hands, and in a ring
Interweaving, let us play
Jumping high, the while we sing
In the woods our Song!

All of beauty, life,
Goes when winter’s here.
Bloom will perish, birds grow dumb,
All things lovely disappear.
But the time has not yet come
To leave off our song.

HYEEVKA—SONG OF THE WOODS

What did she bring us, the beautiful Spring?
Fair tresses, maiden’s beauty.
A maiden’s beauty is as dew in summer
Washed in a spring, dried in an oven,
Set on a table, wrapped in paper.

Springtime! And now what is it she brings us?
She brought us Strength, beauty of boys.
Beauty of boys is as dew in summer
Washed in a rain-pond, dried on a fence,
Set on a table, wrapped in rags.

WEDDING SONG CYCLE

THE WEDDING OF MARUSENKA

(_From various districts. A selection of folk-songs made into a song
cycle, some being fragmentary_)

I
WOROTA—THE GATES

Marusenka with her father pleadeth:
“My beloved father, close the gates,
Close the gates!
Do not let the Duke[4] come nigh—
Let not Wasylenko by.”

“Child beloved! Nay—he entreats
That I let him in, let him in.
Like the khmel, like the hop vines
Round the gates, see, he twines!
At the Table, like barwēnok.... Who allowed
Him to sit there? Proud—
Like a falcon,[5] proud!”

II

The sun as a wheel now mounts the skies:
Marusenka’s ensphered by Paradise.

“This Eden, O maiden, who gave to thee?”
“God and my father!” sayeth she.

III

In the orchard, in the cherry orchard
We passed but now, young Wasyl stood.
He raised his cap in a lightsome mood.
He raised it and listened; he thought he heard
Song of a bird, song of a bird—
Sweet, sweet song of Zuzula[6] winging.
But see! It was maids weaving wreaths and singing.

IV
THE COMING OF MEESCHANI ON SUNDAY TO THE WEDDING

(_The Meeschani or Master Merchants of old held themselves in high
esteem, looking down upon the peasants_)

Let us drive—we will drive across the fields;
Drive uphill and down the dales,
Across the sands, across the stones.
They will hear us coming in the vales;
The sands shall murmur, the stones shall prattle,
As ’neath our horses’ feet they rattle;
We will be talked of everywhere.
Ah, how the villagers will stare:
“See now, Meeschani driving there!”

V
CEREMONY OF THE WREATH-WEAVING

The Kalina[7] grows in a little valley;
It has blossomed with a white, white flower.
The bridesmaids went to pluck a bough
But empty-handed come they now.
Its plucking lay not in their power.
But there went Marusenka,
There the little Duchess went.
The Cranberry her blossoms lent.

Home came Marusenka to the bright Room of Welcome.
Home to the pretty maidens then came she.
Before her little face she set the flowers,
And she looked at them long and earnestly.

Then of her father asked Marusenka:
“Like this Kalinonka shall I be?”
“As long as thou stayest by my hearth-side,
Child, thou’lt be like that Cranberry.

“But when thou goest upon thy journey
Thy beauty, alas, will fall from thee.
O youthful one, from thy braids so golden
Thy beauty swiftly away shall flee!”

VI
THE WREATH

Wreath, my wreath
Of Barwēnok,[8] Kryschati![9]
I have woven you, just you alone.
I have not worn you out with wearing;
Saturday afternoon I wore you,
On Sunday all the dear day long,
On Monday just one little hour ...
I would have you painted, that I might keep you
To dance beneath but one night more;
I would have you gilded, that so enwreathèd
I might walk as in days of yore.

VII
BAKING THE KOROVAI[10]

My Korovai, so heaven-sweet!
Moulded with water from seven wells;
Made out of seven stacks of wheat.

And now our oven with golden shoulders,
Our big oven with silver wings
The festal loaf shall bake for us,
The Korovai shall make for us.

VIII

To her little brother the Duchess cried:
“Brother, I pray thee, saddle thy horse!
Haste to the fields that stretch so wide,
Get for me the horses black,
Drive them before thee on the way back.
Then let them loose among my flowers.
Let them browse as around they course,
And what they eat not in my bowers
The while they do in my garden stay
On their clutching hoof they may carry away.
Let the stamping feet on my flowers fall
That none be left when I am gone;
No joy be there for my bridesmaids all—
So lonesome Mother won’t weep for me:
‘There are her flowers—but where is she!’”

IX
PUTTING ON THE PEREMITKA

(_The enveloping hood or white scarf, the mark of the wife_)

The white Pava[11] is flying—
See all the waiting ring there,
The maids who laugh and sing there—
But all the girls it passes,
Passes by them all
To fall
On Marusenka only.

“Decide now if thou dost regret,
Young Marusenka,
What thou hast done! The maids that jest,
Of their long plaits are still possessed.
They will not take thee back now,
Marusenka!”

X
SONG OF THE BRIDEGROOM’S FRIENDS

“Open the gates—the little gates!”
“Who is it calls? Who is it waits?”
“Attendants of the bridegroom we—”
“Ah, well! Now what may your gift be?”

“We offer you our golden bees—”
“Think you so small a thing would please?
Have you naught else for offering?”

“Behold the great gift that we bring:
The maiden, wearing on her brow
The Ruta-wreath,[12] comes with us now.”

XI
DEPARTURE

Clanged the keys on the table;
Outside the horses neighed.
“O my mother, my dear mother!”
Cried the little maid.

“’Tis all over, all over!
No more am I free.
So sad is it to be married!”
And she wept bitterly.

“Send you your dear daughter
Far away?” mournèd she.
“But I follow, my husband,
Lo, I follow thee!

“The man whom I wed now
A stranger is he.
Yet knoweth my father
To whom he gives me!”

XII
THE MOTHER

_When the bridal party is going to the bridegroom’s house_

As it came to the dawning I awoke:
Swift I looked in the Courtyard grey—
There but now her fine sleigh stayed,
While the prancing horses neighed
That bore my Marusenka away.

“Am I no more your child?” she said,
“That from your side you send me so
Just ere the coming of the night?
Give me a friend in this my plight—
My songster Solowi[13] must go.

“For its sweet piping I would hear
At peep of day to waken me—
She, my new mother, will not call,
Instead, she slanders—cruel words all—
‘Useless this bride as rotten tree!’”

XIII

In the green garden is fresh-fallen snow;
Horses are galloping to and fro.

A mother follows the hoof-marks deep:
“My Marusenka, where dost thou sleep?

“Help me, O Lord, her steps to trace!
Home I would take her from this place.

“Come, Marusenka, come to me!
If now ill-treated thou mayst be.”

She is not in her small white bed.
She sleeps upon the straw instead.

“In what straw, pray, now lieth she?”
She lieth in the rough barley.

“Whose barley pillows now her breast?”
A neighbour’s barley gives her rest.

WEDDING SONGS

SONG OF DEPARTURE: A BRIDE OF BUKOVINA

Dear my mother, weep not!
I shall not take all;
See, the cows and oxen
Leave I in the stall.

I take just black eyebrows,
Only eyes of blue;
And upon your table—
Tears I leave for you.

And the little pathway
Where my footsteps fell
While I brought you water
Daily from the well.

_The Mother speaks_—
Pathway, little garden—
(Ah, she must depart!)
When I gaze upon you
Faints my breaking heart.

UNPLAITING THE HAIR[14]

(_Przemysl District_)

“Unbraid her dusky hair
And place a garland there.”

The Duchess Marusenka
To the city Horodenka
Trips with her small white feet.

She cuts barwēnok there
To wreathe her dusky hair.

Her mother comes, pursuing,
“My child, what art thou doing?”

“Dear mother, can it be
Thou hast no need for me?

“Thou wilt not let me stay
But strive to force away.

“To give away thy daughter
To him who now has sought her?

“Still very young am I,
Not very wise. Then why ...”

“I force and give away
What I would not have stay.

“No longer I’m inclined
For thee upon my mind!

“Strangers for thee inquire;
I yield to their desire.”

THE BRIDE’S SONG

_On the threshold of her mother’s house, as she is leaving_

“Mother mine, keep well!—for now we two must part.
Say not that I’ve taken all, I pray you have no fears.
Lo, upon the table I am leaving—tears!
While outside more tears shall fall from my saddened heart.”

“Manisma, go then; leave me quite alone!
Leave the flowers you used to tend—who will watch them grow?
Who will plant more in the spring in a pretty row,
Who will water them when all the buds are blown?”

“Some one else must water them! If I unhappy be
Why then should I just for flowers ever weep or sigh?”
“Who will sweep from off the walk leaves that on them lie?”
“If my lover comes no more the dead leaves he won’t see!”

THE BRIDE

(_This is sung by a maiden about to be married in a land far from her
parents and native land_)

“Marusya, Marusya, dost thou not lonesome feel?
And tears from thy blue eyes must surely unbidden steal.

“In a strange new country thy wedding-day sun must rise;
And none of thy kin will be near thee to love, praise or advise.

“Why dost thou not write, therefore, and tell thy mother to sail?
Surely her hands are anxious to cover thy head with a veil.”

Then to the wondering maidens the sad Marusya said:
“Verily now I know not if ever I shall be wed:

“I shall never write to my mother and ask her to come to me.
For alas, I have no mother since I dwell in this far country!”

THE DAY BEFORE THE WEDDING

(_Old Folk-Song_)

The bride sings to her lover:

“Thick were the leaves on the lofty tree—
Why came you not last night to me?

“I wonder! But, of course,
Maybe you had no horse,
Maybe you lost your way;
Your mother made you stay?”

Her lover replies:
“I had the horse and the way I knew,
And my mother kept me not from you.

“But my youngest sister loves you not....
She hid my saddle—long I sought—

“My oldest sister, seeking, found,
Swift on my horse’s back ’twas bound.

“She whispered, ‘Try and get there soon,
Riding along by the light o’ the moon.

“‘In body brave keep a good head,
Brother o’ mine!’ she laughing said.

“‘In Sweetheart Land there’s much to learn,
The road has many a curve and turn.

“‘Don’t loose your horse, don’t go astray;
Ride! Ere yet dawns your wedding day.’”

HISTORICAL SONGS

PAN[15] KANOVSKY—SONG OF FEUDALISM

Bohuslav was Pan Kanovsky’s—Dancing there,
Bonderivna—as the Pava[16] she was fair.

Then he saw her, the wild pigeon, full of grace—
And she felt upon her cheek his embrace.

“Pan Kanovsky! You may take e’en my shoes
Off my feet.... But I kiss whom I choose!”

Then the good folk of the town whispered low:
“If thou dost not haste away cometh woe!”

Bonderivna’s o’er the bridge like the wind:
She has left the village houses far behind.

With drawn sabres two grim soldiers follow fast
Through the market-place ... poor pigeon! caught at last.

Pan Kanovsky’s silver musket pointed straight
At her heart.... And she chose then her fate.

“Bonderivna, tall and lovely, live with me,
Or as dung upon the earth you shall be!”

“Rather would I, Pan Kanovsky, fall and die,
Than in arms I loathe, like yours, ever lie!”

As she answered, so he fired—so she fell.
And her father, watching, moaned: “It is well,

“I die with thee, fairest maid of them all!”
And he dashed his white head ’gainst the wall.

Tolled the bells—wailing music cried aloud:
“Bonderivna, earth for aye is thy shroud!”

MARUSYA BOHUSLAVKA
(DUMA)

On the Black Sea,
On a white rock,
Stood a stone prison:
Seven hundred Cossacks,
Unfortunate ones,
In this dungeon lay
These thirty years
Seeing not God’s world,
Nor the righteous sun upon their eyes:

(“Almighty God,
Save us, wretched ones,
From hard captivity,
From the Mohammedan faith!
Send us forth to the bright stars,
To the peaceful waters,
To the joyful land,
The Christian world.
Hear us, O God, in this our prayer!”)

To them the captive maiden,
Marusya Bohuslavka, Daughter of the Priest,
Came,
And said unto them:

“Hai, Cossacks!
Ye unfortunate captives,
Tell me—what day is it in Ukraine now?”

“Hai, captive maiden, Marusya Bohuslavka!
How may we know what day it is in Ukraine?
Are we not thirty years in captivity,
Seeing not God’s world,
Nor the blessed sun upon our eyes?
Because of this we know not what day it is in Ukraine now.”

Then the captive maid, Marusya Bohuslavka, Daughter of the Priest,
Said unto the Cossacks:
“Oi, Cossacks, ye unfortunates!
To-day in our land is Easter Even,
And to-morrow is the holy feast day of Easter!”

They bowed their white faces to the ground
And cursed her, Marusya, the captive maid:
“May God give thee, Daughter of the Priest,
Neither fortune nor happy fate
Since thou it was who told us what day had dawned in Ukraine!”

“Oi, Cossacks! ye unfortunate captives,
Swear not, curse not me:
When our Turkish Pasha goes to the Mosque
Then will I come to the dungeon
And I will throw wide the door
And release you all—unfortunate.”

On the first day of Easter,
When the Turkish Pasha went to the Mosque,
He gave the keys to the captive maid,
Marusya Bohuslavka, Daughter of the Priest.
She came and freed the captives,
And said unto them,
“Oi, Cossacks!
I say unto you—do what is right;
Flee to the cities of Ukraine.
But, I entreat you, pass not by
The town of Bohuslav.
See my mother and father;
Tell my father to sell not his herds,
To disperse not his wealth,
To heap up no more money
To free me from captivity,
Because I have become a Turk—Mohammedan—
For Turkish comfort, good life—unhappy pleasure!”

AKHMET III. AND THE ZAPOROGIANS

S. RUDANSKY

(_The letter written by the Cossacks to the Sultan is in a museum in
Russia_)

In the year 1600, in that God’s year,
A letter came from Akhmet
To our Zaporogie:
“I, Sultan, the son of Mohammed,
The grandson of the one God,
The brother of the Crescent
And even of the Sun;
Knight strong and great,
King of Kings,
Champion of all the world,
And Tzar of Tzars:
Tzar of Constantinople,
Tzar of Macedonia,
Greece, Serbia, Moldavia;
Tzar of Babylon, Podolia and Halych,
And glorious Krimea:
Tzar of Egypt, Arabia, Jerusalem,
The Keeper of the Tomb in Jerusalem
And of your God;
I am the Sorrow and the Help
Of all Christian men—
I say to ye, Cossacks,
Surrender!
Or expect no good from me.”

In the same year the Zaporogians
Read the Letter
And said to their foe, the Sultan:
“Thou, Sultan, art the devil’s son,
The grandson of Haspid[17] himself,
And thou, a hornèd chort[18]!

“Thou art but a wretched inn-keeper
In Constantinople;
A Macedonian brewer,
Greek and Moldavian swine,
And Babylonian blacksmith;

“Thou oppressor of Serbia and Podolia,
Krimean parrot, Egyptian swine-herd;
Owl of Jerusalem!
No help of Christians art thou, but a fool;
No protector of our God.
Thou art not worthy to kiss us anywhere—
Nor worthy to hold our Zaporogie.

“We shall fight thee
By land and sea!
We do not fear thee,
Thou son of a dog!
Such is our answer!

“We know not what year this may be,
Because we have no calendars in our Seech—
Our ‘Meassiatz’[19] is now in the heaven;
This day is the same day as with you.
Then, Turks, after these words
Try to take us!”

BEFORE POLTAVA

_When the Swedish King, Charles XII., was defeated by Peter the Great_

(_Song ascribed to the Hetman Mazeppa_[20])

O woeful fate
For unhappy Tchyka![21]
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?
Must 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.

TIME OF TARTAR INVASION[22]

(FRAGMENT)

Ukraina is sad for that she has no place to dwell in—
The Ordà trampled the little children with their steeds,
By the Horde were the old people carried away,
The rest flung they into slavery.

Who will take Ukraine under its wing
In so evil an hour?
Her land is torn in two,
Her children are broken in four parts,
Her visage is darkened; she is wan
Because of the evil deeds of the Tartars.

THE SONG OF BIDA[23]

Bida, Bida drinks honey-horeevka
Not one day, not two days, not one night only.

The Sultan of Turkey has come to-day—
“What are you doing, young fellow, pray?”

“I drink,” said Bida, “not one day only,
Not two days, no—and my night’s not lonely.”

“If you stop drinking I pledge my oath
My daughter to you shall plight her troth.”

“She is not comely enough to see.
Faugh! Your religion is not for me.”

“Ho there, my men! Just take this wretch,
Put a hook in his ribs and give him a stretch.”

O not one day, not two days only,
Not one night hangeth Bida lonely.

The Doub-tree seeth the Sultan come:
“Ha, Bida, art thou then quite dumb?”

“Nay,” said the rogue, “I see two trees,
Two pigeons perching at their ease.

“Your bow and arrow lend,” quoth he,
“And you shall sup right daintily.”

The weapon Bida’s right hand nears—
The Sultan’s pierced between the ears.

Freed, he has shot the Sultan’s wife,
Nor will he spare the daughter’s life.

“This was a king once,” Bida cries,
“But see how stiff and cold it lies!

“Well, as for me, I surely think
That I deserve another drink.”

Bida, Bida drinks honey-horeevka
Not one day, not two days, not one night only.

COSSACK SONGS

COSSACK MARCHING SONG

(_Sixteenth Century_)

Cossacks whistled! They were marching,
Marching far away at midnight....
Dark-brown eyes of Marusenka
They will soon be blind from weeping.

“Weep not, weep not, Marusenka,
Be not sad—rise from thy sorrow!
Pray the good God for thy dearest.”

Rose the moon in windless silence—
To the Cossack spake his mother,
Her farewell with tears was given:
“Go, then, go, my little son, now!
Go, but see thou’rt not long absent.
Come back when four weeks are over.”

“Gladly would I, O my Mother,
Come before a month is over,
But ... my horse, my black horse splendid
Stumbled with me at our gateway!
Oi! God knows—all’s in His willing—
Whether I return home safely,
Or on bloody field should lay me.
Time of my return God knoweth,
Only He—As thine own daughter
Keep my Marusenka by thee....
Hai! Don’t weep and don’t be sorry:
Under me my horse is dancing,
Prancing and curvetting proudly,
Home ere long you may expect me!”

CHARGE OF THE COSSACKS

Hai! roll up! Eagles brave,
To protect “the Tchighka” (Tchyka[24])
And gain glory newly.
Nobles all!
Or we fall.
Twice we die not, truly—
Hai! Take arms. On we go!

From our rifles we shall shout,
We shall roar from cannon,
With our sabres clashing—
Nobles all,
Or we fall!
’Gainst our foemen dashing.
Hai! Take arms. On we go!

THE YOUNG RECRUITS

Along the hills lies the snow,
But the streams they melt and flow;
By the road the poppies blow—
Poppies? Nay, scarlet though they glow
These are no flowers—the young recruits!
They are the young recruits!

To Krym, to Krym they ride,
The soldiers, side by side—
And over the country wide
Sounds the beat of the horse’s stride.

One calls to her soldier son:
“Return, O careless one!
Of scrubbing wilt have none?
Let me wash thy head—then run!”

“Nay, mother, wash thine own,
Or make my sister groan.
Leave thou thy son alone!
Too swift the time has flown.

“My head the fine spring rain
Will soon wash clean again,
And stout thorns will be fain
To comb what rough has lain.

“The sun will make it dry,
Wind-parted it will lie—
So, mother mine, good-bye!”

· · · · ·

He could not hear her cry.

MOTHER AND SON

(_This song was composed before 1648_)

All the oak forest is murmuring, murmuring:
Thick veils of fog o’er the fields and wide meadows cling.

“Go away, my son, from me—
May the raiding Turk take thee!”

“Mother, well the Sultan knows
Thy brave son. (This witness shows.)

“For he pays me from the mine
Tribute—gold and silver fine!”

“Go away, my son, from me—
May Litvà[25] soon capture thee!”

“Litvà knows me too—I feed
From her tribute, wine and mead.”

“Go away, my son, from me,
May the Tartars soon take thee!”

“Those wild Hordes take, in much fear,
Other roads when I draw near!”

“Go away, my son, from me—
Moscow! Let the Tzar take thee!”

“But the Tzar likes me so well,
With him I’ve been asked to dwell!”

“Ah, my son, come home instead.
Let me, dear one, wash thy head.”

“Nay, my mother, nay. With rain
Washing it I’ll not complain.

“Winds will dry my dripping hair;
Teren-bush[26] will comb it fair.”

All the deebrova[27] is murmuring, murmuring—
Leaden clouds over heaven lowering masses fling.

“Farewell!” the sisters cry—for he must go with speed.
She who is eldest born leads out his splendid steed.

And then the second-born armour brings out to him:
Youngest of all entreats—asks with her eyes tear-dim:

“When, O my brother dear, comest thou back to us?”
“Ah, sister! Of the sand take thou a handful thus....

“Sow on a rock. Each dawn water it with thy tears.
That day the sand springs up—thy brother lost appears!”

THE CAPTIVES

_Cuckoo! calls the Cuckoo...._

In the dawn, in the dawn the young Cossacks are crying,
Far away from their loves, in prison lying,
The dungeon’s dark, their hope is gone,
But the Cuckoo calls, in the dawn, in the dawn!

Blows the wind, blows the wind—From the sea were it blowing
’Twould bear us away beyond all knowing!
Our heavy chains we’d leave behind
If over the sea should come the wind.

O the sun! O the sun in Ukraine shining!
Take us to where our loves are pining....
The Cossacks have their dance begun,
The dance of joy, in the sun, in the sun.

Blue sea! On the sea with the wind they’re dancing—
Our brothers surely are advancing
From prison chains the sad to free.
O swiftly come, o’er the sea, o’er the sea!

_Cuckoo, calls the Cuckoo...._

In the dawn, in the dawn the Sultan sleeping
Is wakened by the sound of weeping—
“Bind stronger chains their limbs upon
That none may flee, in the dawn, in the dawn!”

COSSACK MARCHING SONG

(_Semi-historical_)

The Harvesters are reaping on the hill-side,
And in the valley where the grass is green
The Cossacks leap astride their horses lean.

That gallant hetman, Doroshonko,
Is leading all his troop with right good-will—
Over at last the weary days of drill!

And see that captain stationed in the centre,
His steed is prancing, pawing up the ground ...
Brave Sahaidachni, at the rear, looks round.

In fair exchange for pipe and for tobacco
He’s said adieu to Priska, his good wife—
“Such a mistake! The greatest of my life!”

So is he thinking when he hears one calling:
“Come back, come back and take your wife once more;
My pipe and my tobacco please restore!”

“Ah, ha!” he shouts, “a wife I’ll not be needing—
But your carved pipe is handy on the road.
What a fine thing you have on me bestowed!

“Hai! Who goes there? Pass, friend—and on we’re faring;
With flint and steel I’ll get a puff or two,
So then—don’t worry—and good-bye to you.”

SONG OF VICTORY—1648

_When the Cossacks under Khmelnitzky expelled the Poles from the
Ukraine_

Hai, all ye good people! list what I tell ye,
What’s done in Ukraina’s plain—
There under Dashiev, across the Soroka,
What numbers of Poles now lie slain.

Hai, Perebiynees! But seven hundred
Cossacks he asked for that day.
Then he with sabres smote the Poles’ heads off—
The rest swept the river away.

Drink ye swamp water, Oi! all ye Poles now—
Quench thirst at each rain-pond ye see....
And once ye were drinking, in our Ukraina,
Wine and sweet mead flowing free!

Each Polish “Pan” is lost now in wonder;
“What do these brave Cossacks eat?
Verily, look ye, they live just on pike-flesh,
Solamàkha[28] with water their meat.”

Look now, ye Poles, whom our Hetman Khmelnitzky
Fought on the grim “Yellow Sands,”
Of all your army fighting young Cossacks
Not one has escaped from our hands.

See, Pole! A Cossack is dancing, is dancing
Upon a grey horse after thee!
When he stands with his musket thy heart sinks in anguish
In great fear of death thou dost flee.

We own the whole land e’en as far as Sluch river,
Kostiana! As far as thy Hill—
O rude and uncourteous! Poles caused our revolting
So mourn they their lost Ukraine still.

As a thunder-cloud brooding on Vistula’s river
The Poles lie, expelled from Ukraine.
As long as we live they shall no more leave Poland,
They shall not come nigh us again.

Hai! All ye young Cossacks! Leap up now with shouting—
Akimbo our arms let us place.
We threw all the Poles across Vistula’s waters—
And here they won’t dare show their face!

IN TURKISH CAPTIVITY

On the blue sea waves are roaring,
Mountain high they tower.
Crying in their Turkish dungeon
Wretched Cossacks cower.

“Why, O gracious God, this torture?
Two years now we lie here;
With the chains our hands are heavy—
Wilt Thou let us die here?

“Wings of Ukraina’s Eaglets,
Yanichars[29] cut, throwing
In the grave the living victims,
All their sorrow knowing.

“Hai! Ye youthful Zaporogians,[30]
Have ye not arisen?
Sons of Freedom, ever glorious,
Rescue us from prison!”

LAMENT FOR MOROZENKO

(_This Cossack song of the seventeenth century is sung to a mournful
air which makes a splendid funeral march. Morozenko was an
Ukrainian Governor of a province killed in war with the Tartars._)

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.[31]

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.[32]...”

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

ROBBER SONGS

THE DEATH OF DOBUSH[33]

1745

Along the edges of the wooded height
Walks young Dobush;
Lame in one leg, he on his topir[34] leans
And calls his lads:

“O, ye Legini,[35] O, my boys!
We’ll council hold
Whom next are we to rob?
Kooty we must not miss,
Nor overlook Kossiev.[36]
Now sleep, my boys,
Because we rise at dawn;
Dress in a trice, skin postoli[37] put on,
Povoloki[38] of silk....

“Now run, boys—quick!
Snow covers all the paths;
To Dzveenka’s house go first,
Where we’ll see Stefan’s wife.”

“Oi, Dobush! Nay, my lord,
Sure mischief will befall.”

“Don’t trouble about me;
Load your good musket with
A double charge—stand by the gate—
I’ll to the window go
To see if she still sleeps.”

“My heart, dost thou sleep,
Dost thou hear?
Dost thou wish to receive Dobush?”

“I am not asleep. No. I hear
Each word that you say to me.
I’m working that I may sup—
Stefan is not at home....
The supper’s not ready yet,
But ’twill be a splendid one,
And a wonder for all the world.”

“Dost thou sleep, my heart,
Dost thou hear?
Wilt receive Dobush for the night?”

“I sleep not—I hear every word—
I will not let the robber in.”

“Wilt thou open the door, I say?
Dost tell me to storm it then?”

“I give no command to storm.
But—open it? No, not I.”

“Let me into the hut—thou fool!
Ere I break open the door.”

“My door is too strong for you—
My locks are of trusty steel.”

“Thy locks will not help thee much
When to them my shoulder I set.”

“The strength of full seven more years
You’ll need ere you burst my door.”

Dobush, Dobush pressed hard—
The locks fell in a heap,
And Dobush opened the door,
Just a little opened the door....

And then Dzveenka fired
From the attic where he hid,
He aimed at the heart of Dobush.

Not in the heart fell the blow;
Through shoulders the bright blood burst.

“Dog-catcher! You! Dzveenchuk!
You have eaten me up for her.”

“Why did you woo her? Why
Did you say you were Dobush?
Why tell her all the truth?
Knew you not woman’s truth
Is fast-running water’s foam?”

The Oprishki came to the hut
But they found Dzveenka was flown.

“Oi! Dobush, our good lord,
Why killed you not the wife?”

“How could I kill her, say,
If I loved her so much?”

“Oi, Dobush, our great lord!
Misfortune’s surely here.
Treachery ne’er before
To your Legini came,
But now there’s treachery.”

“Legini, Oi! my boys,
Lay me on your topirs,
Carry me down in the Chorna-Hora,
Where the Black Mountains be,
Then cut my body up as fine as poppy seed.
Let not the Germans mock,
Or quarter my body.

“Divide among yourselves the treasure that was ours—
Then singly go away.
But not to rob—
Not to shed human blood;
Blood is not water, mind,
Not meant to be poured down!”

But then the Germans came,
And Dzveenka led them on.

“Oi, Oi, Dobush, our lord,
What woeful fate is ours!
Where shall we winter spend,
Where all the summer days?”

“In Stanislav, my boys,
Yea, at the market-place!
Tortured, while, bound in irons,
Germans shall tear your flesh,
And there you’ll sleep for aye.”

SONG OF THE OPRISHKI[39]—(OUTLAWS)

Hai, Brethren, Oprishki—give me more horeevka![40]
On the camp-fire now heap on more wood.
If you tuned then my throat to the sound of Sopeevka,[41]
I’d sing for as long as I could.

We are safe just as long as the green grass is growing—
If the forest of leaves be not bare,
If behind the thick bush and green pine we are going,
Even Chorts[42] could not find us hid there.

As the heaven for birds, so for us are the hollows,
The caves in Carpathian crests.
We sleep till the stars, till our own shadow follows,
And then we creep out of our nests.

Tobacco we bring from far Hungary’s borders
(Fleet horsemen their chase may give o’er),
The Jew merchant clothing shall give at our orders,
Or else he’ll be nailed to his door.

Be joyful, my brothers, each day that is ours,
No life such as this can last long.
When snow falls our heads will hang down like the flowers;
No more shall be heard our glad song.

For Austrian soldiers, when first snow is falling,
In uniforms white will appear....
Kolomea![43] Thy bells as of old may be calling—
Their chiming we never shall hear.

THE HAIDAMAKY—“KNIGHTS OF VENGEANCE”

“Haidamaky” they call us, unrelenting and stern,
With the wrongs of our nation for vengeance we burn.

Our forebears were tortured; our grandsons shall be
Unless we will show them how men may be free.

Haidamaky they call us, forever the same,
And we lay down our lives, caring nothing for fame.

For the time long has passed when the yoke pressed us sore:
If a hundred shall fall there are yet thousands more.

Out of misery’s chains the trampled slaves rise,
And to Freedom’s bright flag they will lift dazzled eyes.

Truth and courage for oath, and our Vengeance for breath—
Haidamaky they call us, men who fear not their death.

SONG OF KARMELŪK

(_Written by himself_)

From Siberia I return—
With no fortune I am come.
Not in chains, but yet not free.
Wife and children may be mine,
But their faces I can’t see.
When I think upon their fate
Then I weep most bitterly.

Good lads have I gathered round
(What concerns it any one?),
By the road lie on the ground!
Riders, when will ye pass by?
Tedious it is to wait—
No abode, no hut have I.
The police won’t make me wince
Though Assessors scan each nook,
Hunt in every likely den.
They themselves have killed more men
Than your Karmelūk has sins!

“Robber!” so good folk may cry—
“Murderer!” But I’ve killed none.
For, look ye, I have a soul.
I may take from rich my toll
(And I’ll do it too, be sure!),
Free from sin is Karmelūk
For he gives it to the poor.

Rising o’er Siberia
Shines the sun. Keep watch you must.
Yet in me put all your trust.
Rest your hopes on Karmelūk!

TCHUMAK SONGS

KHUSTINA—THE BETROTHAL KERCHIEF[44]

TARAS SHEVCHENKO

On Sunday she did not dance—
She earned the money for her skeins of silk
With which she embroidered her kerchief.
And while she stitched she sang:
“My kerchief, embroidered, stitched, and scalloped!
I shall present thee and my lover shall kiss me.
O Khustina, bright with my painting.
I am unplaiting my hair,[45] I walk with my lover—
(O my Fate! My Mother!)
The people will wonder in the morning
That an orphan should give this kerchief—
Fine-broidered and painted kerchief.”

So worked she at her stitching, and gazed down the road
To listen for the bellowing of the curved-horned oxen,
To see if her Tchumak comes homeward.

· · · · ·

The Tchumak is coming from beyond Lyman,
With another’s possessions, with no luck of his own.
He drives another man’s oxen; he sings as he drives:

“O my fate, my fortune,
Why is it not like that of others?
Do I drink and dance?
Have I not got strength?
Know I not the roads of the steppes
That lead to thee?
Do I not offer thee my gifts,
(For I have gifts)—my brown eyes—
My young strength, bought by the rich?
... Perchance they have mated my sweetheart to another.
Teach me, O Fortune, how to forget,
How to drown my grief in drink and song.”

And as he journeyed over the steppes, lonesome, unhappy, he wept—
And out on the steppes, on a grave, a grey owl hooted.

The Tchumaki,[46] greatly troubled, entreated:
“Bless us, Ataman, that we may reach the village,
For we would bring our comrade to the village
That there he may confess ere death; be shriven.”
They confessed; heard mass, consulted fortune-tellers.
But it availed not; so with him, unholpen,
They moved along the road. Was it his burden,
The constant burden of his anxious love
(Or victim he of some one’s evil spell?),
That so they brought him from the Don
Home on a waggon?