The Project Gutenberg eBook of Songs of Ukraina, with Ruthenian poems

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Songs of Ukraina, with Ruthenian poems

Author: Florence Randal Livesay

Author of introduction, etc.: P. Krat

Release date: February 8, 2024 [eBook #72903]

Language: English

Original publication: London: J. M. Dent & Sons, Ltd, 1916

Credits: Richard Tonsing, Charlene Taylor, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF UKRAINA, WITH RUTHENIAN POEMS ***

Transcriber’s Note:

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

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

P   AGAN SONGS—

PAGE

Kupalo (Fragment)

21

Song to Vesnianka (Fragment)

23

Vesnianka—Children’s Song

23

Hyeevka—Song of the Woods

24

W   EDDING SONG CYCLE—

The Wedding of Marusenka (I-XIII   )

25

W   EDDING 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

H   ISTORICAL 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

C   OSSACK 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

R   OBBER SONGS—

The Death of Dobush

69

Song of the Oprishki (Outlaws)

74

The Haidamaky—“Knights of Vengeance”

75

Song of Karmelūk

76

T   CHUMAK SONGS—

Khustina—The Betrothal Kerchief (Shevchenko)

78

The Penniless Tchumak

81

R   HYTHMS—

Mother and Daughter

83

Burial of the Soldier

85

The Drunkard

86

Song of the Orphan

87

The Gift of a Ring

89

F   OLK 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

O   THER POEMS—

Thoughts from a Prison (Shevchenko)

147

Topolia—The Poplar (Shevchenko)

148

Song from Exile (Rudansky)

156

The Ring (Vorobkievich)

158

P   OEMS 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

U   KRAINIAN 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?

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.”

“So be it, Daughter. Tarry a while,

But do my will. Long ago I, too,

Was a marriageable maiden—

I know that woe, but it has passed,

And I have learned to help.

I knew thy fortune, my dear daughter,

Two years ago. Then I prepared for thee

That zilie on the shelf.

Now take the magic herb,

And to the clear spring go.

Ere cock-crow wash thy face,

Then drink this draught. Sorrow shall pass.

Run to the grave, nor look thou back—

Some one behind may cry, but give no heed.

Run to that spot where once thou saidst farewell;

Stay there until the moon

Is crescent in mid-sky,

Then drink again.

If he come not,

Then drink once more.

After the first draught thou wilt look

The maid thou wast:

After the second, a horse will stamp its foot.

If then thy Cossack lives

Be sure he’ll come;

But after the third draught,

O daughter mine,

Ask not what shall befall!

But hearken!

Cross not thyself

Else naught of this will be.

Now go! And look upon

Thy beauty of last year!”

·       ·       ·       ·       ·

“To go or not to go?

No, I will not go home!”

She went and bathed herself,

And drank the zilie wine,

And she was changed;

Second and third time drank,

And drowsiness was hers.

She sang on the wide steppes:

“Float, float, O Swan,

Upon the bluish sea!

Grow tall, Topolia,

Reach higher, higher!

Slender and tall, aspire

Up to the clouds.

Ask God: Will waiting then

At all avail?

Waiting for him, my mate?

“Grow, grow tall!

Look out o’er the blue sea.

Good luck and bad luck lie

On either side.

And there, somewhere,

My lover roams the fields.

I weep, my years pass by

Waiting for him.

Say to him, O my heart, Topolia!

That people laugh at me.

Tell him that I shall die

If he do not come soon.

Mother herself

Wishes to bury me....

Look far, Topolia, and, if he is not,

Weep with the dew at sundown,

Though none may know—

Taller and taller grow,

Higher and higher.

Float, float, O Swan,

Upon the bluish sea.”

Such a song Tchornobriva

Sang on the steppes.

O Zilie Miracle!—she is Topolia!

She did not return home;

She did not wait for him.

There slim and tall

She beckons to the clouds.

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.

SONG FROM EXILE

RUDANSKY

Blow, O Wind, unto my Ukraine!

For I left there a sweet maiden.

Yea, two dark-brown eyes I left there—

Blow, thou wind, from midnight onward.

There in Ukraine lies a valley,

In the valley there’s a Khuta;

In the hut there dwells a maiden—

Little maiden, wild she-pigeon.

There, O Wind, Hush and be silent!

Rest above her face in quiet;

Bow above her rosy face, thou;

Look: is she, my sweetheart, sleeping?

Or is she awake, my pigeon?

If she sleeps not, set her dreaming

Of the one she loved, her dearest,

Whom she swore she would forget not.

But, O Wind, if she forget me,

If she have another wooer....

Die away in Ukraina—

Come not back to me in exile!

·       ·       ·       ·       ·

And the wind blows on through Ukraine ...

My heart weeps: ’tis full of sorrows ...

And the wind fled into Ukraine,

And it never turnèd backward.

THE RING

VOROBKIEVICH

It is about a month since my loved one bade me good-bye,

Since he went away, and wept, and gave me the ring;

“If I do not return from war, but there lay my head,

This ring shall remind you aye of your true love.”

Early this morning the ring on my finger broke.

Doubtless the raven croaks, perching upon his head!

I will to the fortune-teller—“Young am I, but sad;

Read me the sign of the ring. I fear that some evil comes.”

·       ·       ·       ·       ·

“There is no good news here; this that you see means blood!”

·       ·       ·       ·       ·

“O mother, my heart burns up! My heart burns like a fire.”

The world in her eyes turned black, and she fainted as quietly

As a flower under a leaf droops in a blazing sun.

In a village graveyard old there stands a cross of oak.

Under it dreams a girl; she has dreamt this many a year.

And her loved one from the war has never, never returned.

In a far-off land, somewhere, he fell into dreamless sleep.

POEMS BY FEDKOVICH[72]

WHERE LUCK LIES

You, my brother, stayed at home,

Threshing out the beans—

I hied me to Germany,

Seeking where my Luck might be,

League on league to roam.

Under Bukowina’s sky,

Even there I went,

Passed the flinty Tyrol’s bar,

Wandered till I reached a star—

Wandering still am I!

Ah, my brother, you did well—

Threshing all the while.

Luck that would not come to me,

Luck I went so far to see,

In your beans it fell!

THE FLUTE

The midnight fire flickers,

The embers slowly dying;

The father sits at the table,

Heavily, sadly thinking.

The mother, too, sits quiet,

Sending swift prayers to Heaven.

Her heart is filled with grief,

But she knows not words to tell it.

The sisters finish their sewing

By the light of the Kahanetz.

The brother has sought a corner

To pipe sad tunes on a flute.

He plays on the flute of Ivan,

Ivan who the Emperor serves.

Suddenly, with a heart-cry,

He stops his sad, sweet playing:

“Ivan, Ivan! It sounds not,

Thy famous tunes are silent!

Where, O where art thou living,

And how doth my brother fare?”

Brushing away his tears

He placed his flute near the rafters.

Quietly leaving the room

He went to sleep in the stable,

That he might talk with the bay

Concerning Ivan, his brother.

And on the hot sands of Italy,

On the green grass lies a soldier,

Shot, awaiting death, alone, alone,

As a leaf in desert lands.

Only the moon is shining—

Above him proud Cheremshina[73]

Her buds flings outward.

And he lies thinking, thinking,

Dreaming of his home,

Bidding good-bye to father,

To mother, brother, and sisters:

“Adieu, adieu, Kateryna,

With thine undying love,

With thy so sweet affection.

Adieu, my golden weapons,

Adieu, my bay in the stable

That carried me to dances,

That knew my heart’s deep secrets.”

Then, low and faint in the distance

There reached his ears, uncertain,

The sound of sweet flute piping.

It drifted into silence....

The soldier’s head has fallen,

The stars have faded away.

On Sunday in the village

Gather Ivan’s companions.

“Brothers, come, let us play it,

The famous flute of Ivan’s!”

How vain were all their efforts;

’Twas dumb, as dumb as ever.

And on the hot sands of Italy,

Under the boughs of Cheremshina,

What does he dream, Ivan?

Does he dream of the bay,

Or of Kateryna?

TWO ETCHINGS

I. HOLY EVE

The bell rings, rings, rings!

The whole city is ablaze with light,

Light dazzling as the heavens.

Even in the barracks the echoes ring,

Although it is all dark and quiet within.

One soldier alone stands in a ray of light;

He leans against a pillar sadly,

As if it were indeed his coffin.

He raises tearful eyes to Heaven,

As though he would entreat the stars:

The stars for him shine very brightly,

Gleam houses beautiful and merry.

Why then a heart so faint and weary

If there is naught to cause it anguish?

How can I know?... I dare not ask him ...

See how his brows are frowning ever—

Who knows the trouble of the soldier?

II. IN CHURCH

Sad and quiet is the House of God,

Stillness holds all and is held there.

Only the old priest reads prayers from a book;

A lonely candle is dying fast.

From the walls the statues of gold

Look down with a wondering stare.

And on the stones, on the cold pavement,

What do I see?

A young, dead soldier resting in a coffin,

No sister lamenting, nor mother fainting with grief;

Just a candle, dropping its wax-like tears,

And the stare of the statues,

And the priest saying prayers for the dead,

A last kiss beseeching for the dead orphan;

But none goes to kiss him. And no one will.

The black cover is nailed on; the candle, melting, falls.

(No sister lamenting, nor mother fainting with grief!)

This is a soldier, an orphan—then who should mourn?

THE RECRUIT

In the great Emperor’s courtyard

He stood at his post on the pavement.

He washed his face and dried it

As the duck her wings in water.

He washed his face with his tears—

None saw or heard in the silence.

He leaned his head on the bayonet

And slept for a precious moment.

In the great Emperor’s courtyard

He slept on his sharp-tipped bayonet.

He dreamt that he walked on a mountain—

O blue was the dream-like mountain!—

Brushing his hair in ringlets.

He walked on thinking, thinking:

Why does my mother write not,

Or can she still be living?

He heard her answer softly:

“I would like, my son, to write you,

But they made me a tomb so lofty

That I may not rise from beneath it.

Oh rise I cannot, my Eagle!

For deep below, on the bottom,

They have covered my hands with earth-clods,

With earth that is lying heavy.”

·       ·       ·       ·       ·

In the great Emperor’s courtyard

He would have dreamt still longer,

But the bell on high St. Stephen’s

Rang with a sudden clamour....

He wiped his face from the misting,

His bayonet wiped he dully—

Blood flows on the courtyard pavement

From the soldier lying dead there.

THE HANDKERCHIEF

The sun was drowning in the ocean’s brim

Red, red as blood;

And in the crimson flood

A young girl sewed a handkerchief with gold,

Embroidering in gold with stitches fine—

(Like lilies white

Her cheeks will look to-night,

Like pure-white lilies washed with tears).

And as she sewed she pressed it to her heart.

Then, weeping sore,

She opened wide the door:

“Strong wind, my Eagle, take this on your wings!

“Strong as the Dunai ever onward flows,

O wind so free,

Deliver this for me

Where now he serves, yea, where the heart well knows.

“He in the Uhlans’ ranks is fighting now—

Go, Golden One,

From sun to sun,

Float on the wind until that place you find!

“And, Golden One, when you shall hear one call

Even as a dove,

Rest, for my love,

My loved one will be waiting here below.

“He has a bay horse, and his weapons are

Shining as gold.

Wind, free and bold,

Fall to his heart, as the rose petals fall.

“If sleeping, wake him not—and, O my God!

If slain he lie,

For your good-bye,

O Golden One, cover his sweet dead face.”

BEFORE KASTENEDOLA

“Look at the soldier’s kabaty,[74]

Mother, mother mine!

Is it not red—like blood—to see,

Or is it like the cranberry?

Knowest thou me?”

“I know thee, I would always know

My only son.

Young as the cranberries that grow,

Bright as the reddest one!”

“The cranberry in that deep wood,

Mother, mother mine!

For me, for me it does not bloom.

High has my flower risen—a tomb

Built for thy son.

“O mother, there it stands—my mate!...

To-morrow, mother mine,

In silken grass and on green lawn

So very early, in the dawn,

I will bow low.

“To Hetman young myself I’ll bow:

‘Young Hetman! Sir!

Wilt bless me, me, the young Cossack?’”

“I’ll bless thee, where the cannons black

Full loudly roar!

There will I bless thee, O my son!”

“My Hetman, Hetman mine!

I follow, and I die, with thee;

I follow, dying—let me be ...

Mother, don’t cry!”

TO M. D.

You are a Hutzul,[75]

And I am a Hutzul—

The serdak[76] both of us wear;

Both born in the forest,

Both christened in the Cheremsh,[77]

Played hide-and-seek with the Bear.

We knew not where luck would lead—

If this road meant good luck,

If that road meant bad luck,

Naught did we ever heed.

To both good fortune came.

She did not forget us;

Her bounty she gave us,

To both of us just the same.

Great lords she would have us be,

To dwell in a palace,

But ah, she was drunken!

Our Luck was fuddled, you see.

You are a Hutzul,

And I am a Hutzul—

She placed her sheep ’neath the Shears!

That’s how Luck has served us,

And pray who shall tell us

Just where the blame appears?

ЩЕ НЕ ВМЕРЛА УКРАЇНА

Ще не вмерла Україна і слава і воля,

Ще нам, братя молодії усьміхнеть ся доля!

Згинуть наші вороженьки, як роса на сонці,

Запануєм і ми, братя, у своїй сторонцї.

Душу, тїло ми положим за нашу свободу,

І покажем, що ми, братя, козацького роду!

UKRAINIAN NATIONAL ANTHEM

(This anthem has several variants; one of these, seemingly the most popular, is chosen for the two stanzas here translated.)

She lives on, our Ukraina!

Her freedom and glory—

Let us hope that once more fortune

May illume Her story.

Like the dew before the sunshine

Our foes disappearing,

We shall rule, Oh, youthful brethren!

Our land, nothing fearing.

Chorus. Soul and body sacrificing

For our freedom cherished,

We shall show we are the sons of

Mighty Cossacks perished!

Nalivaiko and Zalizniak

And Trasílo—falling—

Urge us to our sacred duty,

From the grave-hills calling!

Let us keep in our remembrance

Deaths of Cossacks knightly,

For our youth, our splendid manhood,

We would not spend lightly.

Chorus. Soul and body sacrificing

For our freedom cherished,

We shall show we are descendants

Of great Cossacks perished!

THE LETCHWORTH TEMPLE PRESS ENGLAND

1. These Pagan songs are very hard to find uncorrupted. In an ancient “Koladka” we find such words as these: “In the forest under the oak-tree seeds are planted; on the seeds youths and maidens are seated and they sing the song Ko Ladi; fire burns under the cattle and an old man sharpens a knife to kill a goat.”

“Ko” means “to”; the young people sing a hymn to their beloved goddess Lada. The “old man” is a priest, sacrificing the offering.—(Crath.)

2. Kupalo is the dragon-frost—Muroze, or Koschey; he died, and as snow-water floated down the streams. Symbolically, the Ukrainians, on the day of Ivan-Kupalo, throw his image into the water, and maidens fling garlands on the river and judge of their fortunes by the progress of the wreaths.

The priests, being unable to rid the peasants’ minds of “Kupalo’s Day,” adopted the simple expedient of bracketing him with the Christian St. John (Ivan). The 24th of June (July 7) is the latter’s feast day, but the country folk call it still “The Day of the Bathing of John.” In the Ukraine on that day maidens sing special songs, and most engagements are or were celebrated on this feast.

3. Trezilie: poisonous herbs.

4. The Duke, the husband to be.

“And during the same three days he is called a Duke and she a Dutchess, although they be very poor persons.”—(Anthony Jenkinson’s Letters from Russia, 1557, as given by Hakluyt.)

5. Falcon: metaphor for a lover.

6. Zuzula: the Cuckoo.

7. As the rose in our love songs so in those of Ukraina does the Cranberry or Kalina bloom—the symbol of beauty. Maidens are always being compared to it, and one sings: “Would I were red as a cranberry, for then never was I sad; my lips and cheeks were scarlet, but now they are pale.” The German story of the “Juniper Tree” finds its counterpart in the Cranberry-bush of the Ruthenians. A young girl was murdered, so runs the tale, and her relatives placed the Kalina on her grave. From a branch of this her brother made a flute—immediately a voice sighed: “Brother, play not so loud—do not bring sorrow to my heart!”

8. Barwēnok: evergreen marriage flower, periwinkle.

“Barwēnok,” so often mentioned in the folk-songs in connection with marriage—sometimes it is placed on graves—is a creeping vine, green among the snows of winter. It is akin in meaning to the Polish “meert” or myrtle.

“Little Barwēnok,

You creep, creep low on the face of the earth,

So, O Barwēnok, may my lover ever stay—as close, as near to me.”

On the 24th of June when the passing of Kupalo, God of Frost, was celebrated, the girls of Southern Russia made wreaths of Barwēnok and mallow and threw them into the streams. If a garland were sucked down beneath the waters death was the omen, while if it floated the maiden to whom it belonged would be wed within the year.

9. Kryschati: crossed, in allusion to its appearance.

10. This rich bread, ornamented with braiding and other decorations, is the chief feature at the wedding feast.

11. Pava: pea-hen.

12. Ruta: mint—emblem of virginity.

13. Solo’wi: nightingale.

14. “Unmarried Ukrainian girls wear their back hair hanging in a long single plait, adorned with ribbons, and sometimes covered with flowers. This plait, called kosa, is a maiden’s chief ornament, the cherished object of her care. Its unplaiting is the sign of the change which is coming upon her. The married women wear their hair in two plaits wound round the head and covered by a kerchief.”

15. Pan: a noble.

“Pan Kanovsky” is a type of the insolence of power in the days of feudalism in the Ukraine. Then great “pans” or lords had their harems as much as any Turk. This particular landlord who owned the town of Bohuslav is a semi-historical personage. Many incidents centre round him. He is once said to have met an old woman picking up fallen wood in his domain. He ordered her to climb a tree and call “Cuckoo.” When she did so, he fired at her and brought her to the ground. Another little habit of his was to stick a needle and thread in the lapel of his coat and ask each peasant whom he met: “Have you needle and thread?” (i.e. the means to mend your clothes). If they said “No,” as of course they did, he proceeded to beat them soundly for being improvident creatures.

16. Pava: pea-hen.

17. Haspid: Basilisk and Haspid were serpents.

18. Chort: a swamp-devil.

19. Meassiatz: crescent, or month.

20. The Hetman Mazeppa, who was himself a Kobzar, composed this song among others. The story goes that when he was an old man he visited an Ukrainian official, set in high places, named Kotchubei. When he played on the kobza and sang of the ancient glories of the Ukraine, Kotchubei’s young daughter, like Desdemona, listened entranced, and finally asked him to marry her. He refused, saying that he was too old, but nevertheless she fled to him, bringing tragedy on her house. Ultimately she went insane, when Mazeppa took refuge with the Turks after the battle of Poltava.

21. “Tchyka-Bird” is the poetical name for the Ukraine. The plaintive cry of this bird—“ki-hi”—makes the hearer feel that the Tchyka, or “Mother,” so devoted a parent, is full of woe. She is here compared to unhappy Ukraine.

22. The Tartars played the same part in Ukrainian history as the Indians in America. They established their kingdom in the Crimea and time after time invaded Ukraine, pillaging it, and selling the inhabitants in Turkish slave markets. Later, they intermarried largely with the Ukrainians.

23. Many legends centre around the Cossack Bida (or Bighda), an Ukrainian Prince, whose real name was Dmitro Vishnivetzki. He it was who established “Seech”—the ancient stronghold of the Cossacks. He became famous for his raids on the Turks. The verses above given were written of one of his most noted exploits, if tradition is to be believed. He was captured by the Turks. Told that he was to marry the Sultan’s daughter he emphatically declined the honour, saying that her religion was distasteful to him. Now on the walls of Constantinople there were huge iron hooks and the Sultan commanded his soldiers to hang Bida from these by the ribs. By a ruse his servant came near him and managed to bring him a bow and arrow, as directed. When the Sultan came to see if he had had a change of heart the Prince raised his weapon and killed the Sultan, his wife, and his daughter.

24. Tchyka-bird: the poetical name of Ukraina.

25. Litvà: Lithuania.

26. Teren-bush: thorn.

27. Deebrova: oak forest.

28. Solamàkha: flour mixed with water. Cossacks on the march “travelled light” and were content, nay proud, of the meagre fare mentioned.

29. Yanichars: slaves of the Turks.

30. Zaporogians: at the mouth of the Dnieper river was an island called Hortitsa; Count Dmitro Vishnivetzki (Baida) placed there two thousand Cossacks in a fortress to protect Ukraina from the invasion of the Tartars. Then this fortress—called “Seech”—became the refuge of every kind of outlaw from Poland and the Ukraine. Later a semi-monastic order of Knights was organised to fight unbelievers. Time passed, and “Seech” became a military high school for Eastern Europe. The Cossacks fought to keep the Tartars in the Crimea and made raids on Turkey, with Constantinople as special objective. When the Town Cossacks revolted against Poland, the Zaporogian Cossacks joined them and their stronghold became the refuge of Ukrainian democracy. In 1775 Seech was destroyed by Catherine II.

31. I.e. his skin.

32. Kerchief.

33. In the Ukraine at the end of the eighteenth and beginning of the nineteenth century the Oprishki, or outlaws of the Carpathians, and the robbers of the Ukraine, were so famed that in several instances they have become legendary heroes. History gives us three great outlaws: In the Poltava Government, Harkusha; in Kiev, Karmeluk; and in the Carpathians, where the tongue of the Hutzuls was spoken, Alexa Dobush. These brigands were like our English Robin Hood, robbing only the rich and dividing the spoil among the poor.

34. Topeer: Hutzul weapon, stick with iron barb, a battle-axe.

35. Legini: young, unmarried men.

36. Kooty and Kossiev: neighbouring towns in the Carpathians.

37. Postoli: moccasins.

38. Povoloki: ribbons to wind round the legs.

39. Oprishki: outlaws in the Carpathians.

40. Horeevka: whisky.

41. Sopeevka: a fife.

42. Chorts: little devils.

43. Kolomea: the capital of the county of Pocootie, in Galicia, where outlaws were executed.

44. When a girl becomes engaged she binds on the head of her lover a handkerchief embroidered in gay colours by her own hands.

45. Unplaiting the hair: custom of a bride-to-be.

46. Tchumaki: road merchants, traders in other lands.

47. Shinkarka: wife of the landlord.

48. Zhupan: overcoat.

49. Zloty: 7½ cents.

50. Mohyla: grave-hill.

51. Moldavia: Roumania.

52. Povna rozha: the mallow. On the Day of Kupalo, the old Pagan god of the Ukraine, maidens thread the mallow flowers together and make a wreath which they throw on the water. If it floats the damsel will be married; if it stops, she will not be wed that year; if swept under by the current, she will herself die.

53. Dunai: river. The age of the song can be determined, as in many other cases, by the use of this word.

54. It is the custom of Ukraina to cover its dead soldiers with a red silk kerchief.

55. Wechernyci: evening party or assembly.

56. Falcon: beloved one.

57. In Bukowina it used to be too often the fate of the girl of sixteen or thereabouts to be “thrown to a lover” of her mother’s choice regardless of her own passion for another. “Mothers in Austria are like step-mothers,” said a Ruthenian girl to the writer in explanation of this poem. Many a young girl has drowned herself when she found that her dreams of happiness might not come true.

58. Hromada: the whole parish.

59. Holub: he-pigeon.

60. The rapid river: River of Youth.

61. Widra: pails.

62. Mila: dear one.

63. Verbatim: “likha,” fem. of “likho.” The adjective “likho” has two opposite meanings, sometimes signifying what is evil, hurtful, malicious; sometimes what is bold, vigorous, and therefore to be admired. As a substantive “likho” conveys the idea of something malevolent or unfortunate. But the peasantry also describe by Likho an evil spirit, a sort of devil—“When Likho sleeps, awake it not” is a Polish and South Russian proverb.—Ralston.

The music for this song is captivating and haunts one; the first two lines are slow, the rest of the measure being in quick, lively time.

64. Dunai: means literally any river.

65. Boy children bathed soon after birth in water in which “Lewbistok” has been thrown will be lucky in love.

66. Naidorozcha Devchina: dearest girl.

67. Wasylki: hyssop. These flowers are used to wreathe the candle held by the bride at her wedding. There is also here the idea of magic properties in the flowers which the maid, who wishes to marry her lover, has planted. This song has a lilting air. The first four lines are andantino, the refrain allegro.

68. “The Dream Herb” (a species of anemone) is in the Ukraine considered as something weird and uncanny. It is called Son-travà, literally Dream-grass, and has a flower like a little bell. Maidens pluck it to place under their pillows in early spring, that they may dream of their lovers. But by the rest of the world it is regarded with awe and superstitious fears.

69. Tchornobriva: black-browed girl.

70. Rushniky: long towels prepared by a mother for her daughter’s dowry: in case of death used to lower the coffin.

71. Ptashka: little bird.

72. The fables and songs told him as a child by an invalid sister first turned the thoughts of the Bukovinian poet, Fedkovich, towards poetry. He was born in 1834, his mother being an unlearned peasant, full of superstition. These songs, heard as a child, he wove into music when serving in the army, and to the unknown poet, his sister, is really due part of his fame, she having inspired him by her fancy.

After living for some time in Czernowitz and Moldavia the boy of eighteen joined the Austrian army and seven years later was made an officer, taking part in the Italian wars of 1859, when the Austrians opposed the French. On his return to Bukovina Fedkovich found that his writings had a wide popularity, and he soon made the acquaintance of some well-known patriots who encouraged him to write in Ruthenian, for up till then he had been composing in German. In 1861 his first sixteen poems were printed in Ruthenian, and a year later a larger edition of his works was published. In 1872 he moved to Lemberg, but city life palled on him and he ended his days in the free country life of Bukovina, dying in 1888. His work is marked by great lyrical beauty.

73. Cheremshina: bird-cherry.

74. Kabaty: uniform.

75. Hutzul: Ruthenian Highlander.

76. Serdak: short jacket.

77. Or Cheremosh.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected palpable typographical errors; retained non-standard spellings and dialect.

2. Reindexed footnotes using numbers and collected together at the end of the last chapter.

3. The music files are the music transcriber’s interpretation of the printed notation and are placed in the public domain.

4. In the original score, the tenor part is shown as a regular treble clef, and is understood to be sang an octave lower. To achieve the same results in modern music notation, the octave treble clef with the number 8 printed below is known as the vocal tenor clef. It plays the music an octave lower.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF UKRAINA, WITH RUTHENIAN POEMS ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that:

- • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

- • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

- • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

SONGS of UKRAINA WITH RUTHENIAN POEMS

CONTENTS

SONGS OF UKRAINA

NOTE BY TRANSLATOR

PAGAN SONGS[1]

KUPALO[2]

SONG TO VESNIANKA (SPRING)

VESNIANKA—CHILDREN’S SONG

HYEEVKA—SONG OF THE WOODS

WEDDING SONG CYCLE

THE WEDDING OF MARUSENKA

I WOROTA—THE GATES

II

III

IV THE COMING OF MEESCHANI ON SUNDAY TO THE WEDDING

V CEREMONY OF THE WREATH-WEAVING

VI THE WREATH

VII BAKING THE KOROVAI[10]

VIII

IX PUTTING ON THE PEREMITKA

X SONG OF THE BRIDEGROOM’S FRIENDS

XI DEPARTURE

XII THE MOTHER

XIII

WEDDING SONGS

SONG OF DEPARTURE: A BRIDE OF BUKOVINA

UNPLAITING THE HAIR[14]

THE BRIDE’S SONG

THE BRIDE

THE DAY BEFORE THE WEDDING

HISTORICAL SONGS

PAN[15] KANOVSKY—SONG OF FEUDALISM

MARUSYA BOHUSLAVKA (Duma)

AKHMET III. AND THE ZAPOROGIANS

BEFORE POLTAVA

TIME OF TARTAR INVASION[22]

THE SONG OF BIDA[23]

COSSACK SONGS

COSSACK MARCHING SONG

CHARGE OF THE COSSACKS

THE YOUNG RECRUITS

MOTHER AND SON

THE CAPTIVES

COSSACK MARCHING SONG

SONG OF VICTORY—1648

IN TURKISH CAPTIVITY

LAMENT FOR MOROZENKO

ROBBER SONGS

THE DEATH OF DOBUSH[33]

SONG OF THE OPRISHKI[39]—(OUTLAWS)

THE HAIDAMAKY—“KNIGHTS OF VENGEANCE”

SONG OF KARMELŪK

TCHUMAK SONGS

KHUSTINA—THE BETROTHAL KERCHIEF[44]

THE PENNILESS TCHUMAK

RHYTHMS

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

BURIAL OF THE SOLDIER

THE DRUNKARD

SONG OF THE ORPHAN

THE GIFT OF A RING

FOLK SONGS

“MY FIELD, MY FIELD”

SONG OF THE COSSACK

SONG

ORPHAN SONG—THE MOTHER

SONG OF UNHAPPY WOMAN

A GIRL’S SONG

OLD FOLK SONG

THE DAUGHTER OF THE WITCH

SONG OF VDOVÀ—(THE WIDOW)

THE TWO LOVERS

SONG—THE BROKEN ENGAGEMENT

THE DISTANT SWEETHEART

THE ENCHANTRESS

THE DYING SOLDIER

THE ORPHAN’S WEDDING

MOONLIGHT[57]

ON THE STEPPES

IN THE GARDEN BESIDE THE WATER

UNREQUITED LOVE

THE OAK

NIGHT ON THE ROAD

SONG OF THE DANCE

PIGEONS—THE LOVERS

SONG FROM AN OPERA

THE MAID TO HER LAGGARD LOVER

THE TRAMP AT THE INN

LITTLE PETRUS

SONGS OF THE POPPY HARVEST

BALLAD

“GIRL O’ MINE”

YAKIMY—OLD FOLK SONG

AN OLD FOLK SONG

BALLAD

THE KALINA—OLD FOLK SONG

AN OLD FOLK SONG

IN THE FIELDS GROWS THE RYE

AN OLD BALLAD

“KAZHUT LUDY, SHO YA LIKHA”

“I WAS BORN IN A FATED HOUR”

THE SONG OF THE VISITS

“WASYLKI”[67]—SONG OF THE DANCE

KALINA—THE CRANBERRY

OTHER POEMS

THOUGHTS FROM A PRISON

TOPOLIA—THE POPLAR

SONG FROM EXILE

THE RING

POEMS BY FEDKOVICH[72]

WHERE LUCK LIES

THE FLUTE

TWO ETCHINGS

I. Holy Eve

II. In Church

THE RECRUIT

THE HANDKERCHIEF

BEFORE KASTENEDOLA

TO M. D.

UKRAINIAN NATIONAL ANTHEM

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE