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!”
