Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

God he besought
At least to see his sweetheart. But not so—
He pleaded not enough.... They buried him ...
And none will mourn him, buried far away;
They placed a cross upon the orphan’s grave
And journeyed on.

As the grass withers, as the leaf falls on the stream,
Is borne to distance dim,
The Cossack left this world, and took with him
All that he had.

Where is the kerchief, silken-wrought?
The merry girl-child, where?
The wind a kerchief waves
On the new cross.
A maiden in a nunnery
Unbinds her hair.

THE PENNILESS TCHUMAK

In the market-place of Kiev
A young Tchumak drank and drank:
Oxen, wagons, yokes and yoke-sticks,
All his wealth in drink he sank,
In the market-place of Kiev.

And at sundown he awoke—
How he peered into his purse!
All his pockets he turned out,
With full many a muttered curse,
In the market-place of Kiev.

Not a penny to be found!
For his revelling was naught.
“Pour, Shinkarka,[47] half a quart!”
But she laughs at such a thought
Scorns to wait on such as he.

Then he takes his zhupan[48] off.
“Oh, Shinkarka, even pour
Just a quarter of a quart!”
“To coat add four zloty[49] more—
Then there’s drink for revelling!”

To “mohyla”[50] sad he went,
Gazed adown the valley green:
Oxen, wagons—wagered, spent—
Yokes and yoke-sticks, all his wealth
Lost in market-place of Kiev!

“Oi, I’m off to distant lands!
To Moldavia[51] go I—
I’ll be slaving seven years,
Then more oxen I shall buy,
And I’ll be Tchumak again!”

RHYTHMS

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

“_O you thought, my mother, you would never be rid of me! There will
come a day, a Sunday, when you will wish for me; you will weep
long and sore—‘O where now is my daughter?’_”

_The Daughter_—

If thou lovest me, Sweetheart,
Let me go to the cherry orchard—
No ill shall befall thee—I will but pluck the povna rozha.[52]

To-morrow I go to the quiet dunai[53] to wash the clothes; then will I
throw the blossom on the water.

Float, float, my rozha, as high as the banks of the river are high!
Float, my rozha, to my mother! When she comes to the river to draw
water she will know that the flower was borne to her from her
daughter’s hand.

_The Mother_—

Thy rozha has withered on the stream; wast thou in like ill case for
these three years?

_The Daughter_—

I was not sick, my mother, not a year, not an hour.... You chose for
me a bad husband.

Did I not carry water for you? Why did you not beg of God to give me a
good husband?

Did I not wash the clothes for you, O my mother?

Why did you curse me in this way?

_The Mother_—

Nay, child, I cursed thee not. But on a day—and only once—I said: “I
hope she may never marry!”

_The Daughter_—

And was not that wish ill enough—that I should never be married? You
could not have wished me worse just then.

For—when I was young—I knew not what it meant—the marrying of your
daughter.

BURIAL OF THE SOLDIER

Near the pebbly shores grows a green elm-tree.
Under the tree a soldier is dying.
Comes a young Captain bearing a gold handkerchief: he weeps with fine,
fine tears.
“O Captain, my Captain, weep not!
Send word to my friends to come and build me a house.”

With rifles shining like silver his comrades came. They wept over his head with fine tears.

“Weep not; O ye, my dear friends; tell my father and mother to hasten
here from the country to bury me.”

“Where, O my son, shall we dig thy grave?”

“Nay, neither of you shall bury me; the young soldiers only shall bear
me there.”

So they bore him, leading his horse before him; behind the coffin his mother walked, weeping. Even more wept his sweetheart. The tears of his mother would not make him rise from the dead; but his sweetheart was crying and wringing her hands.

For never before had a soldier been her lover:
And never again would a soldier be one.

THE DRUNKARD

The Red Cranberry has withered
Over the well....
Woe to me, my mother,
With a drunkard to live!
A drunkard drinks day and night;
He does not work.
When he comes home from the Inn,
Though I be young, young,
Yet he strikes me!

I open the casement
As my mother comes.
She asks of my little ones:
“Is the drunkard home?”

Carefully, softly
Enter, my mother!
My drunkard sleeps,
Sleeps in the barn—
See thou wake him not!

“May he sleep!
May he never wake!
That he on thy little head
Bring no more grief.”

“Oi, my mother!
Abuse not my drunkard.
Tiny are my children—
Without him
Would it not be worse?”

SONG OF THE ORPHAN

I will go into the field and talk to the dew; and together with the
dew I will bemoan our unlucky fate.

I will climb a hill and fall into thought: I was left an orphan; I
have no friends.

In my tiny garden grows a lovely lily.... And what is that to me, if I
am still young, if I am still an orphan?

As the soaking hemp rots in the water, so lives an orphan in this
world.

O my Mother dear, my grey bird, you have raised me, fed me for these bitter woes! O my Mother, my golden Mother, my grey dove! You left me all alone to minister to others’ wants. What have I done to you, my Mother dear, that you have so deserted me? If you had drowned me in my bath, my Mother, I would not have exchanged my fate with any earthly king’s.

How pretty are the flowers that bloom! How beautiful the children who have a mother! Other people’s children are like dolls: and I am an orphan. Other people’s children have mothers: and my Mother is with God.

O, my Mother died! My Mother— O unhappy fortune! She will never speak, She will never ask me, “What are you doing, my daughter?” When I begin to think of my dear Mother Sorrow so heavy overtakes me that I can hardly bear it.

There is no flower in this world prettier than the Cranberry: No one is so lovely as a mother to a child. My Mother is now in the grave—there is her grave— O why was I born—I, so unlucky in this world?

THE GIFT OF A RING

He gave me a ring, and I laughed and asked him:
“What does this mean?” “A gift,” he answered.
I went with another upon the morrow,
And in the evening he was so angry.
“You wore my ring,” he said, reproachful,
“The ring means marriage—you’re pledged to me!”

I flung my ring at the foolish creature
And I said: “Now hasten out of my sight.
I never saw such a stupid person,
Who says one thing and means another!”

FOLK SONGS

“MY FIELD, MY FIELD”

(_Fragment of an old song_)

O my field, my field!
Ploughed with bones,
Harrowed with my breast,
Watered with blood
From the heart, from the bosom!
Tell me, my field,
When will better days be?

My field, O my field!
By my grandfather won,
Why dost thou not give
Me the means of life?
Bitter toil! With my own blood stained,
My heart’s blood is there.
How bitter for me, my field,
To look on thee!

SONG OF THE COSSACK

Heavily hangs the rye
Bent to the trampled ground;
While brave men fighting die
Through blood the horses bound.

Under the white birch-tree
A Cossack bold is slain—
They lift him tenderly
Into the ruined grain.

Some one has borne him there,
Some one has put in place
A scarlet cloth,[54] with prayer,
Over the up-turned face.

Softly a girl has come.
Dove-like she looks—all grey—
Stares at the soldier dumb
And, crying, goes away.

Then, swift, another maid
—Ah, how unlike she is!—
With grief and passion swayed
Gives him her farewell kiss.

The third one does not cry,
Caresses none has she;
“Three girls thy love flung by,
Death rightly came to thee!”

SONG

I walked along the river bank,
My horse paced by my side.
“Marry me, Cossack!” a gay voice cried.

“Marry me, or wed me not,
But let me hear you say
You hope you may wed me some fine day!”

“O were you richer, little one,
I’d take you by the hand,
Before my stern father we two should stand.”

“O were I rich, my Cossack,
Do you know what I would do?
I’d tramp on your father, I’d tramp on you!”

I walked along the river bank....
Don’t sigh, my little maid,
In your garden barwēnok will not fade.

If this one leaves you, do not fret,
Another will come soon.
Fresh are your roses—it’s only June.

ORPHAN SONG—THE MOTHER

As a cloud, O Lord, let me float!
Over the village let me go.
And into the village, like fine rain
Let me fall, far below.
How my child is dressed I fain would see;
She sits in the Orphan’s seat, I know;
But she’s robed as a lady of high degree!

SONG OF UNHAPPY WOMAN

Over my gate a pigeon’s wings!
Over my gate they flew—
But my father gave me not to him,
The one I loved so true.

To Voyvoda, a Captain bold,
My father married me:
He carried me to distant lands
Where none of my own kin be.

O I will pluck the Malva flower
And throw it on the stream—
Now float thou far, thou Malva flower,
To her of whom I dream!

The Malva blossom floated on
And circling on was swept....
Drawing the water from the stream
My mother saw—and wept.

“Oi! Daughter mine! Fear’s on my heart;
Ill liest thou on thy bed?
For lo! thy lovely Malva flower
Is withered all and dead.”

Not one day was I lying sick,
Not one day, not one hour—
Unfaithful was the man I wed,
And I am in his power.

A GIRL’S SONG

What is the use of my black eyebrow,
What is the use of my black eyes?
My youth is nothing, my happiness flies.

For every day my youth is going:
Lustreless eyes have come through tears,
Faded my eyebrow’s curve appears.

O maidens all, I am sick at heart now—
Like a bird that dies for lack of air
Why should I for my beauty care?

OLD FOLK SONG

O wild horses—where are ye running over the steppes?
Where is she—the maid with the lovers three?
Where is that wheat which bloomed with a white flower?
Where is the maiden with beauty of black eyebrows?
Where is the wheat—Can I not reap it?
Where is the damsel—Can I not wed her?

· · · · ·

“I had not come her gates within,
Nor sat me down her bread to break—
I stood without on the threshold bare:
She had poison ready in wheaten cake.”

· · · · ·

On a Thursday morn the Soldier came:
On the Thursday noon the youth lay dead.
On the Friday to the open grave
Before his bier his horse they led.

Behind his corse his mother wept....
The maiden’s mother thus did chide:
“O daughter mine! What hast thou done?
Was it through thee thy lover died?”

“My mother dear, what was to do?
My heart could find no other way.
My soldier love had sweethearts two—
So lies he cold upon this day.

“I would not have him—so he died—
I would not have him—he sleeps sound.
Nor shall she ever in this world
Hold him who lies in the damp ground.”

THE DAUGHTER OF THE WITCH

(VARIANT)

(_Song in a play_—“_Go not to the Wechernyci,[55] Hritz_”)

“Go not, I pray thee, to the dance, Hritz!
For there await thee daughters of the witch.

“They burn the straw beneath the bubbling roots—
They’ll take your life just when their wish it suits.

“That one with black, black eyes—most potent witch is she;
She knows all roots that grow by river or by tree.

“She knows what each distils—and she loves you!
With envious love she watches what you do.”

Sunday morn she dug the roots;
Monday, cleaned them; Tuesday, brewed;
Wednesday from her cup Hritz
Drank; on Thursday he lay dead;
Friday comrades buried him.
Greatly mourned the maidens all;
Comrades, much lamenting, cursed
Her who brought about his death:
“Hritz, was never one like thee!
May the devil take the witch!”

On Saturday the old witch beat full sore
Her wicked daughter, crying o’er and o’er,

“Why did you poison him? Did you not know
What all the roots could tell you? Ere cock-crow
That he must die?” “O mother, speak not so;

“There are no scales for sorrow—why did he
Make love to her, saying he loved but me?
For this, O Hritz, your just reward I gave—
A dark house of four planks—a grave, a grave!”

SONG OF VDOVÀ—(THE WIDOW)

O’er the Steppes rode he, the Cossack,
Vdovà was dwelling there—
“Dobry den! Good day, poor widow,
Is all well? How dost thou fare?

“I but ask a drink of water—
Widow, with thy husband fled,
Wilt thou give it for the asking?”...
“How knew’st thou that he was dead?”

“By thy garden I could tell it—
Sad and lonesome is the sight.
And thy heart is ever grieving:
Tell me then—am I not right?

“In the garden of the widow
Coreopsis blossoms not,
Never blooms a single flower
In so desolate a spot.”

(In the garden of the widow,
Yea, in truth the wild weeds grow.
But her children they are tended,
And a mother’s love they know.)

“The rain, O the rain
On her unploughed field!
What should be the yield?
Who is fain, who is fain
For Vdovà to toil,
On the weed-grown soil?
With fine, fine tears it is raining now....
When one comes from the tomb
Vdovà shall plough!”

THE TWO LOVERS

(FRAGMENT)

The wild wind bloweth ever,
The tree’s high branches shaking.
His letter cometh never—
And ah, my heart is breaking!

O cruel wind, ever teasing!
The man I’ll soon be hating
Keeps writing without ceasing—
How long my heart is waiting!

SONG—THE BROKEN ENGAGEMENT

Between the two dark clouds
The moon comes out with light.
A little higher than the moon
There is a bird in flight.
O weary, weary are the wings the sky enshrouds!
Wings that have tired too soon.

Ah, woe is for the heart
That loved, nor ever changed.
That ever loved so true
What skies soe’er it ranged.
But weary, weary are the wings that must depart—
Wings that have tired of you!

THE DISTANT SWEETHEART

High is the mountain-top—
But there’s a lower peak.
Far away lives my love;
Nearer a girl’s to seek.

Oxen and cows hath she—
My love of far away,
Loveliness only holds;
Yet is she rich to-day.

Linen all bleached and white
Lies in my neighbour’s chest—
Ah, but an eyebrow black
Counts more than all the rest!

Fair maid so close to me,
What leagues are we apart—
Over the hills to thee
I come, I come, Sweetheart!

THE ENCHANTRESS

My girl tricked me—
But she’s so nice why should I mind?
Mother! Could’st thou a nicer find
To be the wife of this thy son?
Nay, there was never such a one.
But ah, she’s such a little tease,
My love, who’s like red cranberries!

The beauty of her eyebrows! Fain
Am I to tell you once again
How like the clouds they seem to be.
They make strange weakness steal o’er me;
Her glances burn me—O the gold
And red of sunset skies unrolled!

Her scarlet lips of such allure!
(The torment I each day endure!)
Like plums all downy to the touch,
Ah, ’tis her lips I love so much!
And yet—her cheeks have havoc wrought—
Has she a witch’s philtre sought?

Don’t fool me, little sweetheart, pray.
As minnows in the water play
So would you slip and slide and turn
The while my heart must glow and burn.
My heart has reached its utmost bounds,
Yet still that fire gnaws, surrounds.

Then, if you love me, plague me not.
You will not lose. See what you’ve got.
But, if you love me not, my own,
Charm me until I too am stone.
You’ll lose if you don’t love, I swear,
But—charm me—maybe I won’t care!

THE DYING SOLDIER

_This song has many variants—the introductory portion of this version
was given me by a peasant woman—while a young Ruthenian girl,
whose brother was a soldier, said she had often heard him sing the
words following_:—

Brother, whence comest thou?
From beyond Dunai?
What heardest thou in Ukraine?

Nothing have I heard,
Nothing have I seen,
But horsemen on four sides.
The Russians have covered the mountain.

On that mountain a Turkish horse stands,
On the horse sits a Turk’s young son.
In his right hand he holds a sword,
From his left blood flows.

· · · · ·

On the rocky steeps a horse is standing;
It is neighing aloud that Love may succour;
It is pawing the earth in woe and anguish.

Beside the horse a soldier is lying;
Above them circles a huge bird flying ...
Beside the soldier his mother is crying.

“The flag was lost—why lose my life too?
The men were falling—then why not fly?
O mother mine, be not so sorry—
I cannot bear to see you cry!

“They cut me to pieces, but did not kill me.
My head in four, my heart in six.
My white, white fingers they cut in pieces
As if they were but wooden sticks;

“My body white, fine as seeds of poppy—
I was sore wounded in my flight.
O mother mine, be not so sorry
To see your son in such a plight!

“Look for a carpenter, look for a doctor.
The doctor cannot help me greatly;
The carpenter a house will make me.

“This house no doors nor windows knoweth,
But when from toil the workman goeth
He then on me a gift bestoweth.

“When all is lost and all is finished,
My builder and my war—good-bye,
O mother mine, cease from your weeping,
Because your son is going to die!”

THE ORPHAN’S WEDDING

“Come out, dear young Melanonka,
Look about and on each hand,
Lest perchance your father stand
On some doorstep, Melanonka!”

“O I know, I know
That I have no father!...
I will send a crow
To some far-off land
To bring me news
Of my distant kin;
And into the ground,
Yea, deep within,
I will send Zuzula
For my dear father.”

The crow brings news from his long flight:
“Your kinsfolk come with much delight.”
Zuzula flies and tidings brings:
“Your father may not come,” it sings.
“The cold earth, like a heavy door
Has closed. It may not open more.
Of windows, like the shining sun,
Alas, alas, it has not one
Through which your father’s eyes might see
How fair his orphan child should be!”

“My father dear, my falcon,[56] stands
Before the Lord, and earnestly
He prays, ‘O God, from heaven to earth
Now may I go, my child to see?’”
“O humble soul—they have no need
For such as thee. Her maidens there,
Faithful attendants, wait her will,
Arrange the wreath on her bright hair,
Heaping her dowry very high,
They’ll seat thy daughter as a queen,
They’ll robe her as a lady fair.”

MOONLIGHT[57]

“Light o’ the moon, shine out, shine out,
Round as the wheel of a mill.
Come out, Sweetheart, its glory see,
Listen, the night is still.
Then speak for a while to me!”

“Ah, but I long to come, my love!
See how I bend and yearn.
But candles are still in those windows set;
At a whisper heads will turn....
Alas, they will part us yet!

“Mother, is’t thou?... Nay, strike me not,
Make me not lame for aye.
Peace.... Thou may’st bandage mine eyes to-night,
And lead me the river nigh—
But give me one moment’s sight!

“For then I would have one fleeting glance,
Beautiful world, farewell!
Earth, full of all that is loveliest,
Who shall my sad fate tell,
Flung on the river’s breast?

“World, thou wert fair as all God’s things be;
But hardly my days went by—
Harder it is for me to go—
Sad, O sad to die,
Nor lived my joy to know!”

ON THE STEPPES

_On the steppes two fir-trees old,
Their shrunken trunks uphold._

_And there stands a third between
Splendid in its towering green._

A young Cossack lies sick on the road,
A young Cossack lies low.

_Spent he lies, and he fears that death
Waits beside for his last-drawn breath._

“O my brothers, pray you run
To let my mother know,
To let my mother know!

“Let her come where the frontier lies
To bury the Cossack,
To bury the Cossack.”

(“_O son of mine,” she wailing cries_,
“_Lo, ever thus the sinner dies!_

“_Thy stubborn heart that would not bend,
Such is thine end, such is thine end!_”)

“And my grave, O Mother dear,
With stones thou’lt heap it high,
With stones thou’lt heap it high.

“Plant at my head red cranberries,
Scarlet against the sky,
Scarlet against the sky.

“Upon the branches hang
A bright-red scarf, like flame,
A scarf, like glowing flame.

“To show how Cossacks die:
Ukraine shall know my fame,
Ukraine shall know my fame!”

IN THE GARDEN BESIDE THE WATER

In the garden beside the water
Barwēnok will not grow.
Nor will the maiden to the river go—
The miller’s daughter,
Her pails to fill.

In the garden beside the water
She spread to dry, one day,
Seeds of the fragrant, pungent caraway.
The miller’s daughter
She comes no more.

In the garden beside the water
A tree is bending down.
The maiden, idle, in the sombre gown,
The miller’s daughter
Is troubled sore.

In the garden beside the water
She doth bemoan her fate.
A man is standing by the garden gate.
The miller’s daughter
Hears his low laugh.

UNREQUITED LOVE

I have lost her, my loved one—
My heart is nigh broken.
As a mother her baby
So loved I my darling;
So would I have given
My loved one, my loved one, my heart!

I sit by the window
And think “Would she wed me!”
If she knew all my passion
As a mother her baby,
So would she have loved me,
And given her heart.

Outside of her garden
I wait for her coming
Though cometh she never—
Alas, now I know it,
She careth not for me
And mocketh at love!

THE OAK

“Spread wide thy fair branches, and flourish, my Oak,
For to-morrow, to-morrow all will be lost;
To-morrow, to-morrow cometh the frost.

“Make ready, young Cossack, thine arms for the war,
For to-morrow, to-morrow the soldier must go—
To-morrow, to-morrow they march on the foe.”

“Nay, I have no fear of the frost and its might—
To-morrow, to-morrow, I stand in men’s sight
As queenly and fair, as green-leaved and bright.”

“I am not afraid of the coming of dawn,
Though to-morrow, to-morrow will see us march on—
To-morrow, to-morrow the Cossack is gone....”

“Sprinkle the roads that the dust may not fly:
Cheer father and mother, friends, lest they may sigh.”
They have sprinkled the roads, but the dust hangs in clouds,
They comfort the sad, but still Sadness enshrouds.

Before the hromada[58] the Cossack bows low:
“Farewell, friends and foes, and all whom I know.
Farewell! If perchance I have quarrelled with some
(Or if with my friends has a variance come),
I have ended all strife and all quarrelling sore,
Because I return, O hromada, no more!”

NIGHT ON THE ROAD

Dark the road and lonely,
A Cossack comes a-riding—
Who is this he sees there?
Just a girl in hiding.

“Look at me and fear not,
Don’t run home to Mother.
Look! am I not handsome?
Was ever such another?

“But, my pretty lady,
It’s not you I’ll marry,
Unless it be you bring me
Heaps of gold to carry!”

· · · · ·

A maiden walks in shadow
Adown the road so lonely.
She hears a sudden clatter—
Ah, it’s a Cossack only.

“Look at me, my brave one,
Black, black is my eyebrow.
If thou could’st see this Halka
Then surely thou would’st sigh now.

“I haven’t got a kopeck—
Ah, how I love to tease thee!
I’d never wed thee, Cossack,
Because thou dost not please me!”

SONG OF THE DANCE

(_This is sung to a tune almost identical with “The Little Brown Jug”_)

The rain is falling, falling fast,
So swift it rushes down apace,
“Shush-shush,” it sounds in channel’s race.

· · · · ·

“Who’s going to take me home to-night?”

The Cossack who’s been drinking deep
Sees at the dance a lady smile.
“O fair one, stay a little while
And I will see you home to-night.”

“I beg you not to take me home
Because my husband is a bear!
He’d beat me when I entered there,
If you should see me home to-night.”

The music makes a noise like rain.
The fiddlers play, the drum booms on—
The Cossack waits—she has not gone—
All know he’ll take her home to-night!

PIGEONS—THE LOVERS

By a river, swiftly flowing,
Perched Holubka and Holub,[59]
Lovers, how they kissed each other!
Close embracing with their wings.
“Thou art my good luck,” said she,
“I would give my life for thine!”

From the wood an Eagle old
Sudden flew and killed Holub.
Then he bore Holubka far—
Over the swift rivers bore—
Strewed before her golden wheat,
Sad, she mourned and would not eat.
And she sang: “Holub’s not here,
Now he never will be here!”

“Seven pairs of pigeons wait
For thy choosing, foolish child—
Take the one thou wouldest have.”

“Though there should be twenty-four
Never one like my true love!”

SONG FROM AN OPERA

Hard bloweth the wind, and the trees are bending,
I weep, for my heart aches so, with a pain unending.

My years pass in my woe, and so shall ever—
Alone I mourn, my folk must see me never.

For when none see the tears, and no one chideth,
Peace in my heart a moment then abideth.

Else, those around me say with laughter scornful,
“She weeps—O well, what’s that—she’s always rather mournful!”

They do not know the cause for tears upwelling,
Ah, not to them in words the truth I’m telling.

How lives the tree that in the sand is growing,
When sun and dew no bounties are bestowing?

How live I then, when in the day so weary
My sweetheart comes not to my heart so dreary?

THE MAID TO HER LAGGARD LOVER

Hesitate no more, Beloved;
Weigh not gain and loss—
I have crossed the rapid river[60]—
The Danube I shall cross.

If much longer, my Beloved,
Pondering, you wait,
All your wheat in fields shall winter
Harvested too late.

THE TRAMP AT THE INN

“_Mud lies at the door, the door of the inn:
Thatched is its roof with straw—O it’s a sin
The money I’ve spent there—the sums untold,
They might have topped the roof with solid gold.
Hai, Hai!_”

The landlady and landlord, quarrelling,
Stop as they hear the tramp begin to sing.

“Get up, get up and fetch me supper soon.”
“Nay, there’s no bite nor sup for such a tune.

“Lie down, lie down, such legs can’t bear you far—
Head to the door, feet where the tables are!”

Then, ere he sleeps, he hears the landlord shout:
“Oxen must drink—get up and take them out!”

He has no hat, so no hat may he don;
He wears no boots, for they have long since gone.

Three hours before the dawn, unwashen, cold,
He sees a dark cloud gather, fold on fold.

And soon the rain in pelting drops descends
Upon the wretch who has no home nor friends.

He looks upon his bare feet, and, with tears,
“Mother!” he cries, “behold the toll of years!

“Why was I born, or why didst thou not shrink
From giving me my will—freedom to drink?

“One only son hadst thou, whom men call ‘tramp,’
Doubtless a vagabond and worthless scamp—

“When thou didst carry me on river bank,
Why didst thou not see to it that I sank?”

LITTLE PETRUS

(_From the Opera “Natalka Poltavka,” by_ IVAN KOTLAREVSKY)

Petrus I love, I love so well—
But I’m afraid, afraid to tell.
O the trouble he gives, the little Petrus,
Fair-skinned, with black moustache!

My mother knows—I wonder how—
That I’m in love with Petrus now.
O the trouble he gives, etc.

My mother beat me, you must know,
Because I love my Petrus so.
Although, my mother, you strike me,
Petrus will soon be mine, you’ll see!
If my Petrus is not in sight
Before a wind I bow down quite.
But if his eyes in mine should glance
With arms akimbo watch me dance!
How I have cooked! I love to bake
For dear Petrus delicious cake.
... Alas, he comes not.... What a loss
Was all my cooking! There across
The street comes tiresome Hritz instead
To eat my lovely cake and bread!
O the trouble he gives, the little Petrus,
Fair-skinned, with black moustache!

SONGS OF THE POPPY HARVEST

I
How like to the poppy seed is this world,
It blossoms, it blossoms to-day.
To-morrow a stormy tempest blows
And the flower has vanished away.

O sad for the forests and willow-trees
That hark to the nightingales:
O woe for the house of the widow young
When the voice of her husband fails!

O sad for the forests and willow trees
When no nightingales awake
The rest of the little singing birds
As the rays of the morning break!

And sadder still is the quiet house
Where the lonely widow sleeps:
Where the little children none shall rouse
Since the grave their father keeps.

II
How sad, O my Mother, how sad
To think of the roses blown by the wind
And the petals all swept away!

How sad, O my Mother, how sad
For the war-horse in battle array!

But sadder my heart for the soldier young
Who must go for those three long years:
Must go at the call of his king!

BALLAD

Here is a hill,
And there is a hill.
And between them shines
A bright, bright star.

What I thought a star
My sweetheart was—
She for water went
And I followed her
As I would seek
A star in the sky.
My fine grey horse
With me I took.

“My sweetheart dear,
Now what woke thee
In the early dawn?”

“Nay, no one woke—
When I arose
In the first starlight
I bathed my face.
With the second stars
I went to the well.”

“O my dear sweetheart,
Wilt water my horse?”

“I will not water
Thy thirsty horse,
Because I fear;
For I am not thine.
If thine I were,
From the bubbling spring
And with new pails
I would quench the thirst
Of horses twain.”

“O dear my love,
Sit now with me
On my fine grey horse!
Homeward we’ll go.
Four splendid rooms
In my home have I.
The fifth one, love,
Waits but for thee.
It is lighted up
For us two alone.”

When they went through the town
None saw them go;
When they went on the steppes
The fine grey horse
Took bit in mouth,
Plunged in the stream
And its rider slew.

“O love of mine,
Lean close, lean close!
Till he bring you safe
To the farther shore.
Look now, I drown
While yet so young!
Good-bye, sweetheart,
Good-bye, good-bye!
Heed not strange men
Who’d speak with thee,
For thou art young,
Alas, so young!”

“GIRL O’ MINE”

(VARIANT)

“Girl o’ mine,
Give my horse a drink!”

“Not yet am I your wife.
Were that my lot in life
My widra[61] from the spring
Cold water then would bring.”

“Girl o’ mine,
Get up behind this horse!
Ride we at swiftest gait!
Rooms in my house await.
The guest-room, O so fine!
Shall couch this girl o’ mine.
Girl o’ mine,
My horse needs better guard!”

“Ah, but the road is hard;
The dew’s on the grass yet,
My bare feet would get wet.”

“My coat around your feet
Shall keep them warm, my sweet.
And when God wills, I’ll buy
New shoon to keep them dry.”

“Nay, buy no shoes for me—
Your own might better be.
There’s one likes my feet bare—
Now run and catch your mare!”

YAKIMY—OLD FOLK SONG

Yesterday between the even
And the cock-crow went Yakimy,
Softly went he to the widow,
None was there to see.

Welcoming, she held in greeting
Both his hands—“How com’st thou, sweetheart?...
It is time, my Heart, my lover—
Go now, slay thy wife!”

To his wife then crept Yakimy,
But he found no heart to strike her—
“You were married at the altar,
Pretty little bird!”

With entreating words she pleaded,
Begging him to leave her living....
“She was married at the altar,”
So the widow heard.

“She looked pretty as a swallow,
My true wife, my shlubnazhinka,
She doth beg so hard for life now,
How am I to kill?”

“Hearken not to her, Yakimy,
Listen not, young Yakimonko,
Take a sword and go behind her,
And behead her swift.”

So he stole behind and slew her.
Then he whispered to the widow:
“How to slay her you have shown me,
But—the deed to hide?”

“Make a fire in the oven,
Block the flue up very tightly,
So the smoke will not ascend there:
‘She was crazy,’ say.

“Later leave her in the forest,
Say that she in foolish dreaming
Lit a fire to warm herself by,
Perished in the flame.”

Listening, Yakimy’s neighbour
Heard his baby crying, crying:
“Where’s your wife, O young Yakimy,
That your child cries so?”

“She just went now to the forest
To her sister for a visit,
She forgot her little baby,
She forgot her child!”

· · · · ·

Topmost on a forest nut-tree
Was the little Cuckoo calling:
“They take away the young Yakimy,
Fetters on his hands!”

At a little inn they rested.
Yakim drank to drown his sorrow:
“Through the widow, cursèd widow,
I have lost my wife!”

AN OLD FOLK SONG

Grass rustling in the breeze,
And on the hill a soldier lying.
His horse stands by the dying,
Earth to its very knees.

“Nay, faithful one, stay not
To see if I grow stronger,
Tarry thou now no longer
But see thou art not caught.

“The steppes wait for thy feet,
Then swiftly homeward hie thee;
Let them not come anigh thee,
Harvesters in the wheat.

“Those raking would betray.
So, shod with silence going,
Thou shalt pass these unknowing
Upon thy homeward way.

“Haste through the village street.
Thou bearest naught of gladness.
Like orphan in his sadness
Neigh to the folk who greet.

“And at my mother’s gates
The while bars fall asunder,
My mother comes in wonder
And for thy words she waits.

“‘Bay horse, where is my son?
By thee lies he then drowned there?
Trampled upon the ground there?
Bay horse, what hast thou done?’

“‘Thy son was ever brave,
But cease now from thy weeping,
O’er earth and water leaping
Thy son I tried to save.

“‘I would have saved his life....
For this, thy son has tarried,
A Princess has he married—
The green turf ta’en to wife!’”

BALLAD

Playing on the flute was Ivan,
Walking by Dunai.
And Palazhka, drawing water,
Smiled at him on high.

“Ivan, Ivan, my heart’s lover!
Come down; drink with me.
Cider of the apple sparkling
And wine I’ll give to thee.”

Down came he—she on her threshold
Offered poisoned cake:
Jelly of the cranberry,
Venom of the snake.

Came his mother from her sweeping
As in bed he lay:
“Nay, arise now, my son Ivan,
Wheat’s to cut to-day.”

“Lift my head I cannot, Mother,
It is aching so.
Pray thee, dear my Mother, wilt thou
To my comrades go?

“Tell them swift to come anigh me.
Hasten, Mother! Say,
‘Come, if ye would see my Ivan
On his life’s last day.’”

Like fine rain their tears were falling
When his fate they knew—
“Ivan, did Palazhka slay thee,
Ivan, tell us true?”

“Mother, Mother, dear my Mother,
Haste thee now away.
Tell Palazhka—‘Look on Ivan
On his life’s last day.’”

Then his sweetheart entered softly—
Heard Ivan’s demand:
“Oh Palazhka, didst thou slay me?
Was’t thy mother’s hand?”

“Neither I nor yet my mother
Slew thee, laid thee low.
Why didst thou for draught of water
To my neighbour go?”

THE KALINA—OLD FOLK SONG

Was I not once the red cranberry
By the river flowing?
My father’s only child was I
In his house growing.

But they plucked the boughs of the kalina,
They made great bunches—
Such is my fortune—O unhappy fortune!

But on a day they married me;
As I was bidden
I married—and, my blinded eyes
Forever hidden,

The world grew dark upon that morning—
Such is my fortune, O unhappy fortune!

Is there no river that I may drown in?
Was there none other
Than he, the youth to whom they wed me,
Father and mother?

Rivers a-plenty can be found here—
But dry the bed now:
And youths, brave, gallant youths, are countless,
But they are dead now!

AN OLD FOLK SONG

As the cherry glows in the garden,
So she, the loved one, grows—
So I my love caress.
There’s a gossiping tongue in the houses,
The women among:
“For the dance she will not dress!”

O love adored, I must leave thee
Safe in the care of the Lord:
But a long way I must roam—
Expect me, Sweetheart, for a visit
When grass shall start
On the threshold of thy home.

· · · · ·

“Green grass has swayed on my threshold—
Silken grass begins to fade.
For my love I wait—I wait—
A dove calls now in the garden
From the withered bough
Stuck in the ground by the gate.
‘Oi-oi-oi-oi!’ she is cooing,
‘He comes no more a-wooing.’”

IN THE FIELDS GROWS THE RYE

In the fields grows the rye, rye that is green, is green—
“Tell me, my lover, how livest thou, when never my face is seen?”

“Out in the fields, down-beaten, rye lies upon its face—
So do I live without thee, the good Lord giving His grace.”

On the crest of the hill is the rye, cut high on its blooming stem:
Down below is a well where the horses drink water drawn for them.

“With thy breath the water is blown; pray why dost thou not drink?”
“Of what, O young black-browed girl, of what now dost thou think?”

“I think and I think all day: I wonder if I shall wed—
Nay, surely this may not be!” the black-browed maiden said.

“For who would marry me? No oxen nor kine have I,
Black brows—blue eyes—such wealth what lover would satisfy?”

“Fret not thyself, Sweetheart, some one will come to woo,
Caring naught for gold or kine—caring all for eyes of blue!”

AN OLD BALLAD

“Mila,[62] farewell,
For I must go!
How you shall grieve
Full well I know.”

“My lover, nay,
Be sure my heart
Will not be sad
When you depart!

“I mount one hill:
Another’s set
For you to climb—
Thus I forget.”

“When behind my love
Closed the new gate,
I could not work,
Nor sleep, nor wait.

“When my soldier passed
The willows thick
With tears my eyes
Were blinded quick.”

(As he neared the hill
She fainting lay—
Cold water laved
Her brow that day.

The Iron Gate
As he passed by
In a coffin new
His love did lie.)

Four steeds a-gallop—
“Young soldier, haste!
The deathbell tolls
For your love so chaste.”

“Nay, let it ring—
And bury her deep;
For she was not sorry;
She would not weep.”

The soldier young
Has her threshold gained:
Ah, heavy the tears
His eyes down rained!

“O little white feet
So dear to me,
How have they bound ye
Thus straitly!

“In Ukraina
When I went to the war,
They walked with me
So very far.

“Your dear white hands
Tight-clasped remain.
They rested in mine
When I marched to Ukraine.

“O you dear thin lips
So closely sealed.
How you talked to me,
And love revealed.

“O my dear red cheeks
How pale they lie.
They bloomed like the rose
When to war went I.

“Those dear black eyes
That darkened be,
When I went to Ukraine
How they looked at me!”

“KAZHUT LUDY, SHO YA LIKHA”

“They may jeer and call me ‘Likho!’[63]
I am Vasilyka!
In the fields I’ve long been toiling,
Rest I now must seek O!
In the fields I’ve long been toiling,
Rest I now must seek O!”

Vasilyka, evil’s coming!
Wasyl runs to thwack you!
Not a soul is here to rescue,
Not a one to back you!
Not a one is here to rescue,
Not a soul to back you.

BY DUNAI’S[64] WATERS

So quietly, so gently the Dunai’s waters flow.
A maiden combs her hair, and sees reflected far below
A wealth of silken tresses the breeze blows to and fro.

So quietly, so gently the loose hair drifts adown—
“Float there!” she cries, “float onward through vale and busy town,
But wait for me a moment, wait, ere I leap to drown!

“You know the veiling willow upon the river brim?
Wait there—and my sore heart shall come to tell the tale of him—
No end there is to Dunai; no eyes for me shall dim.

“The widow’s son was handsome, he loved me, as I thought,
And look upon the misery his laughing eyes have wrought.
Ah, Dunai! did’st thou know it then—know that he loved me not?

“O cruel is my lover, Ivan, the widow’s son,
He rode away, and whispered, ‘Farewell, my little one—
The day was bright and fair, my dear, but now the day is done.

“‘Oh, sit beside the river, or watch me from the wall—
I’ll wear the wedding flower some day in banquet hall:
And you can wear, all sombrely, a thick-enfolding shawl.’”

_So quietly, so gently the Dunai’s waters flow._

“I WAS BORN IN A FATED HOUR”

They say I am lucky, that cares I’ve none—
Yet never was there so unlucky a one.
’Twill be always the same, while I draw my breath,
From the hour of my birth to the day of my death.
O Dame Misfortune, I’m in your power,
Because I was born in a fated hour!

The spring so pretty, she presents brings,
But not for me are her gracious things.

My days go on, and my years fly past,
And I never was happy, from first to last.
O Dame Misfortune, I’m in your power,
Because I was born in a fated hour!

I do not count my earliest years,
Though doubtless they had their fill of tears.
O future days! If you wretched be,
Come short of the span allotted to me.

Mother of mine, when you bathed[65] in flowers
Your baby child, of a few short hours,
The while the shower of blossoms broke
Why did not you let the petals choke?

Mother of mine, did you kneel and pray
In cloister dim, when a babe I lay,
That all misfortune should depart
From the little child held to your heart?

“I bore you there, and I knelt and prayed.
Alas, that blessing has been stayed!
Ill-luck has come, in spite of all—
Then take from God what may befall.”

THE SONG OF THE VISITS

I liked a girl too much, too much.
She asked me to come and see her sometime.

So I went to see her upon a Monday—
I did not find my girl at home.
She was in the garden weeding barwēnok.
“Ah ha!” I thought, “she is not at home,
My little sweetheart is not at home.”

When I went to see her upon the Tuesday
I did not find my girl at home.
She was clearing the pea-vines in the garden;
“Ah ha!” I thought, “she is not at home!
Naidorozcha Devchina[66] is not at home.”

When I came to see her upon the Wednesday
I did not find my girl at home.
She was out in the pastures herding cattle.
“Ah ha!” I thought, “she is not at home,
My sweet little rose is not at home!”

When I came to see her upon the Thursday
I did not find my girl at home.
So I thought I was lost—I would not get her.

When I came to see her upon the Friday
She was weeding still in the garden bed.
“Ah ha!” I thought, “she is not at home,
My rosy cheeks is not at home.”

Saturday came and found me calling.
When the door was opened they told me this:
“She finishes all her work of cleaning.”
And I thought, “May I never see her again!”

When I came to see her upon the Sunday
I got her that time, you may be sure.
She was sitting there at the dinner table.
I said, “I have you, Naidorozcha Devchina,
The first time for you, the last for me!”

“WASYLKI”[67]—SONG OF THE DANCE

O they said, the evil talkers,
I, a maid, should never wed....
I saw Wasyl in the orchard,
The green boughs above his head.

_Refrain._ They are mine, the blue wasylki,
And Wasyl, he comes closer....
The reason why I like him so,
The Devil’s Father knows, sir!

There’s a dam anear the river—
My Wasylko’s gone from sight!
I call him, he does not answer—
May he spend in health the night.

_Refrain._

Kneading bread and bringing calves home....
Where, Wasylko, art thou? Where?...
Laughing now above the oven
My Wasylko’s lying there!

_Refrain._

Sleeveless shirt for my Wasylko
I will sew while bread I bake.
For my lad, my own Wasylko,
See the lovely shirt I make!

_Refrain._ They are mine, the blue wasylki,
My Wasyl, he comes closer.
The reason why I like him so,
The Devil’s Father knows, sir!

KALINA—THE CRANBERRY

SHEVCHENKO

“My Daughter!
Why dost thou visit the grave-hill?
Why weepest thou; where goest thou?
Like a grey dove at night thou moanest.”

“It is nothing, my Mother, nothing....”
And she went to the hill again,
While, weeping, the mother waited.
That is not Herb-o’-Dreams[68]
Blooming at night on the grave;
A betrothed maiden Kalina plants,
Waters it with her tears,
Beseeching Heaven:

“O God, send rain at night,
Abundant dew,
So that Kalina
May bud forth.
Perhaps my lover
From the other world
Will come.
Lo, there I’ll make a nest
And I myself
Shall fly to it,
And we shall sing together
On the bough.
Yea, we shall weep and sing
And murmur low—
Together we shall in the dawning wing
Our flight to other worlds.”

And the Kalina grew,
Spreading forth branches green....
Three years she visited the grave—
The fourth year dawned.

That is not Herb-o’-Dreams
That blooms at night.
It is a weeping girl
Who to Kalina speaks:

“O my Kalina, broad and tall,
Watered before the sunset....
—Nay, but broad tear-rivers
Drenched thy roots.
And to these rivers coward-talk,
Whisp’ring, would give ill-fame.
My girl companions look askance at me
And they neglect Kalina.
Deck now my head,
Wash it with dew.
Cover me from the sun
With thy broad branches
Shielding.
Then they will find me, bury me.
Mocking at me;
And thy broad branches
Children will tear off.”

At sundown in Kalina’s leaves
A bird was singing.
Under the bush a young girl lies,
She sleeps, she sleeps, nor will arise.
Tired, the youthful one. She rests for ever.

The Sun rose over the hill;
Rose the folk joyfully
From happy slumbers.
But all, all the long night through
A mother slept not.
Weeping, she could see
The vacant place at table,
Lone in the dusk,
And she wept bitterly.

OTHER POEMS

THOUGHTS FROM A PRISON

TARAS SHEVCHENKO

The sun sets; mountains fade
Into the darkness; the bird’s note is stilled.
The fields grow silent, for the peasant now
Rejoicing, dreams of rest.

And I look with desire,
Longing desire—to an orchard dark,
The Orchard of Ukraine.
And I pour forth my thoughts
As though my heart were resting.

Fields, forest, mountains, darkening still—
And in the shadowy blue appears a star ...
O Star! My Star!... And the tears fall ...
Hast thou then also risen in Ukraine?

Not for the people and not for the praise
These verses now are written. Nay, I write
But for myself, my brothers, for heart’s ease.
Lo, from beyond the Dnieper, as from far away
The words flow in and spread the paper o’er;
Laughing and crying as the children do
They gladden my poor soul, uncomforted,
Raw, inconsolable—I joy in them,
With them would always stay. They are my own.
As a rich father loves his little ones,
So am I glad and merry with my own.
Yea, I rejoice; and the good God I praise,
That He lets not my children fall asleep
In this so far-off land, but says, “Run home,
And tell the others in the dear Ukraine
How bitter ’twas to live in such a world!”

TOPOLIA—THE POPLAR

SHEVCHENKO

The wind blows through the oaks in the wood,
It dances through the fields.
Beside the high road it uproots Topolia,
And fells her to the ground.

Why has she a slim, tall trunk?
Why are her broad leaves green?
The field around is blue,
And wide as the sea....
When the Tchumak passes
He looks and bows his head.
Tchabàn, the shepherd, in the dawn,
His pipe plays on the hill;
He looks around.
Sorrow is in his heart—no shrub is near—
Only a poplar lone,
Lone as an orphan stands,
Fades in an alien land.

Who nurtured this slender and yielding body
To languish on the steppes?
Wait, maidens, I will tell ye!
Listen:

With a Cossack
A maiden fell in love,
Loved him, but held him not.
He departed and perished.

If she had known
That he would leave her
She would not have loved him:

If she had known
That he would die
She would not have let him go:

If she had known,
She would not have gone for water late at even,
She would not have lingered
With her sweetheart
Under the willow tree
If she had known!...

But it is dangerous
To know the future—
What misfortune will meet us,
Maidens, seek not to know,
Ask not of your fate.
The heart knows whom to love.
Let it wither, little by little,
Until it is buried,
Because
Not for long are the bright eyes
Of the black-browed girl.

Girls, O Girls!
Not for long the rosy cheeks!
Only till noon—
Then they will fade, will shrivel,
The black brows will grow pale....
Girls! Love ye or like as your heart says.

The nightingale is trilling
In the wood, on the cranberry.
Walking in the meadow
The Cossack sings—
He sings until Tchornobriva[69]
Comes out of the hut,
And he asks her:
“Did your mother hurt you?”
Close together they stand, they embrace,
The nightingale sings,
And, hearing it, they depart,
Joyful at heart.
Nobody sees them, none will ask her,
“Where wast thou, what didst thou do?”
She herself knows. She loved,
But her heart was sad with foreboding,
All unspoken, untold....
Abandoned,
Day and night she called,
Cooing like a mournful dove,
But no one heard.

The nightingale does not sing
In the wood over the water:
The black-browed girl sang of old
Under a willow tree—
Now she does not sing.
As an orphan, she hates the white world.
Without her sweetheart,
Like an alien, her mother,
Like a stranger, her father.
Without her sweetheart
The sun shines
As an enemy loves.
Without her lover
All is—a grave.
And her heart beats on.
One year passed, and another,
The Cossack did not return.

· · · · ·

“I will not marry him, Mother!
I do not wish to ‘live like a lady,’
Lower me in a grave with those Towels![70]
Better to lie in a coffin than to see his face.”

· · · · ·

“O fortune-teller, how long will I live in this world
Without my sweetheart?
Granny-Pigeon,
My Heart, Nenka, tell me the truth,
Is my lover alive and in health?
Does he love me,
Or forget and abandon me?
Tell me, where is my lover?
Art thou ready to fly to the end of the world,
Granny-Pigeon?
Tell, if thou knowest,
For my Mother marries me to an old, rich man....
But, O Grey One,
Never will my heart cease loving that other!
I would drown myself
But so I might lose my soul.
O my ‘Ptashka!’[71]
Do something—let me not go home.
It is hard, hard for me—
There, at home, the Old One waits
With the marriage brokers.
Tell me my fortune.”