Folksongs.

Pagan Russia was rich in ceremonies in honour of the various divinities representing the powers of nature. Christianity has not entirely obliterated the memory of these ancient rites: they are preserved in the ceremonial songs that are recited, now of course without a knowledge of their meaning, upon all church holidays, to which the old festivities have been adapted. Thus, the feast of the winter solstice now coincides with Christmas, while the old holiday of the summer solstice has been transferred to St. John’s Day, on June 24th.

The kolyádas are sung at Christmas, and seem to have been originally in honour of the sun. The name appears to be related to the Latin “calenda,” but it is generally supposed that this is only accidental, and that Kolyáda was one of the appellations of the sun. Young boys and girls march through the village or town and exact contributions of eatables by reciting the kolyádas. In other places they sing, instead, songs to a mythical being, Ovsén, on the eve of the New Year. This Ovsén is some other representation of the sun.

During the Christmas festivity fortunes are told over a bowl of water which is placed on the table, while in it are put rings, earrings, salt, bread, pieces of coal. During the fortune-telling they sing the bowl-songs, after each of which a ring, or the like, is removed. After the fortune-telling follow the games and the songs connected with these.

Spring songs are recited in the week after Easter. Soon after, and lasting until the end of June, the round dance, the khorovód, is danced upon some eminence, and the khorovód songs, referring to love and marriage, are sung. There are still other reminiscences of heathen festivals, of which the most important is that to Kupála, on the night from the 23rd to the 24th of June, when the peasants jump over fires and bathe in the river.

The wedding-songs, of which there is a large number in the long ceremony of the wedding (cf. Kotoshíkhin’s account of the seventeenth century wedding, p. 143 et seq.) contain reminiscences of the ancient custom of the stealing of the bride, and, later, of the purchase of the bride. Most of the love songs that are not part of the khorovód are detached songs of the wedding ceremonial.

The beggar-songs are more properly apocryphal songs of book origin, handed down from great antiquity, but not preceding the introduction of Christianity. There are also lamentations, charms, and other similar incantations, in which both pagan and Christian ideas are mingled.

An account of the folksong will be found in Talvi’s Historical View of the Languages and Literatures of the Slavic Nations, New York, 1850; W. R. S. Ralston’s The Songs of the Russian People, London, 1872; Russian Folk-Songs as Sung by the People, and Peasant Wedding Ceremonies, translated by E. Lineff, with preface by H. E. Krehbiel, Chicago, 1893. Also in the following periodical articles: The Popular Songs of Russia, in Hogg’s Instructor, 1855, and the same article, in Eclectic Magazine, vol. xxxvi; Russian Songs and Folktales, in Quarterly Review, 1874 (vol. cxxxvi). A number of popular songs have been translated by Sir John Bowring in his Specimens of the Russian Poets, both parts.

KOLYÁDKA

Beyond the river, the swift river,
Oy Kolyádka!
There stand dense forests:
In those forests fires are burning,
Great fires are burning.
Around the fires stand benches,
Stand oaken benches,
On these benches the good youths,
The good youths, the fair maidens,
Sing Kolyáda songs,
Kolyáda, Kolyáda!
In their midst sits an old man;
He sharpens his steel knife.
A cauldron boils hotly.
Near the cauldron stands a goat.
They are going to kill the goat.
“Brother Ivánushko,
Come forth, spring out!”
“Gladly would I have sprung out,
But the bright stone
Drags me down to the cauldron:
The yellow sands
Have sucked dry my heart.”
Oy Kolyádka! Oy Kolyádka!

—From W. R. S. Ralston’s The Songs of the Russian People.

BOWL-SONG

A grain adown the velvet strolled—Glory!
No purer pearl could be—Glory!
The pearl against a ruby rolled—Glory!
Most beautiful to see—Glory!
Big is the pearl by ruby’s side—Glory!
Well for the bridegroom with his bride—Glory!

—From John Pollen’s Rhymes from the Russian.

A PARTING SCENE

“Sit not up, my love, late at evening hour,
Burn the light no more, light of virgin wax,
Wake no more for me till the midnight hour;
Ah, gone by, gone by is the happy time!
Ah, the wind has blown all our joys away,
And has scattered them o’er the empty field.
For my father dear, he will have it so,
And my mother dear has commanded it,
That I now must wed with another wife,
With another wife, with an unloved one!
But on heaven high two suns never burn,
Two moons never shine in the stilly night,
And an honest lad never loveth twice!
But my father shall be obeyed by me,
And my mother dear I will now obey;
To another wife I’ll be wedded soon,
To another wife, to an early death,
To an early death, to a forcèd one.”
Wept the lovely maid many bitter tears,
Many bitter tears, and did speak these words:
“O belovèd one, never seen enough,
Longer will I not live in this white world,
Never without thee, thou my star of hope!
Never has the dove more than one fond mate,
And the female swan ne’er two husbands has,
Neither can I have two belovèd friends.”
No more sits she now late at evening hour,
But the light still burns, light of virgin wax;
On the table stands the coffin newly made;
In the coffin new lies the lovely maid.

—From Talvi’s Historical View.

THE DOVE

On an oak-tree sat,
Sat a pair of doves;
And they billed and cooed
And they, heart to heart,
Tenderly embraced
With their little wings;
On them, suddenly,
Darted down a hawk.
One he seized and tore,
Tore the little dove,
With his feathered feet,
Soft blue little dove;
And he poured his blood
Streaming down the tree.
Feathers, too, were strewed
Widely o’er the field;
High away the down
Floated in the air.
Ah! how wept and wept,—
Ah! how sobbed and sobbed
The poor doveling then
For her little dove.
“Weep not, weep not so,
Tender little bird!”
Spake the light young hawk
To the little dove.
“O’er the sea away,
O’er the far blue sea,
I will drive to thee
Flocks of other doves.
From them choose thee then,
Choose a soft and blue,
With his feathered feet,
Better little dove.”
“Fly, thou villain, not
O’er the far blue sea!
Drive not here to me
Flocks of other doves.
Ah! of all thy doves
None can comfort me;
Only he, the father
Of my little ones.”

—From Talvi’s Historical View.

THE FAITHLESS LOVER

Nightingale, O nightingale,
Nightingale so full of song!
Tell me, tell me, where thou fliest,
Where to sing now in the night?
Will another maiden hear thee,
Like to me, poor me, all night
Sleepless, restless, comfortless,
Ever full of tears her eyes?
Fly, O fly, dear nightingale,
Over hundred countries fly,
Over the blue sea so far!
Spy the distant countries through,
Town and village, hill and dell,
Whether thou find’st anyone,
Who so sad is as I am?
Oh, I bore a necklace once,
All of pearls like morning dew;
And I bore a finger-ring,
With a precious stone thereon;
And I bore deep in my heart
Love, a love so warm and true.
When the sad, sad autumn came,
Were the pearls no longer clear;
And in winter burst my ring,
On my finger, of itself!
Ah! and when the spring came on,
Had forgotten me my love.

—From Talvi’s Historical View.

ELEGY

O thou field! thou clean and level field!
O thou plain, so far and wide around!
Level field, dressed up with everything,
Everything; with sky-blue flowerets small,
Fresh green grass, and bushes thick with leaves;
But defaced by one thing, but by one!
For in thy very middle stands a broom,
On the broom a young grey eagle sits,
And he butchers wild a raven black,
Sucks the raven’s heart-blood glowing hot,
Drenches with it, too, the moistened earth.
Ah, black raven, youth so good and brave!
Thy destroyer is the eagle grey.
Not a swallow ’tis, that hovering clings,
Hovering clings to her warm little nest;
To the murdered son the mother clings.
And her tears fall like the rushing stream,
And his sister’s like the flowing rill;
Like the dew her tears fall of his love:
When the sun shines, it dries up the dew.

—From Talvi’s Historical View.

THE FAREWELL

Brightly shining sank the waning moon,
And the sun all beautiful arose;
Not a falcon floated through the air,
Strayed a youth along the river’s brim.
Slowly strayed he on and dreamingly,
Sighing looked unto the garden green,
Heart all filled with sorrow mused he so:
“All the little birds are now awake,
All, embracing with their little wings,
Greeting, all have sung their morning songs.
But, alas! that sweetest doveling mine,
She who was my youth’s first dawning love,
In her chamber slumbers fast and deep.
Ah, not even her friend is in her dreams,
Ah! no thought of me bedims her soul,
While my heart is torn with wildest grief,
That she comes to meet me here no more.”
Stepped the maiden from her chamber then;
Wet, oh, wet with tears her lovely face!
All with sadness dimmed her eyes so clear,
Feebly drooping hung her snowy arms.
’Twas no arrow that had pierced her heart,
’Twas no adder that had stung her so;
Weeping, thus the lovely maid began:
“Fare thee well, belovèd, fare thee well,
Dearest soul, thy father’s dearest son!
I have been betrothed since yesterday;
Come, to-morrow, troops of wedding guests;
To the altar I, perforce, must go!
I shall be another’s then; and yet
Thine, thine only, thine alone till death.”

—From Talvi’s Historical View.

Sing, O sing again, lovely lark of mine,
Sitting there alone amidst the green of May!
In the prison-tower the lad sits mournfully;
To his father writes, to his mother writes:
Thus he wrote, and these, these were the very words:
“O good father mine, thou belovèd sir!
O good mother mine, thou belovèd dame!
Ransom me, I pray, ransom the good lad,—
He is your beloved, is your only son!”
Father, mother,—both,—both refused to hear,
Cursed their hapless race, cursed their hapless seed:
“Never did a thief our honest name disgrace,—
Highwayman or thief never stained the name!”
Sing, O sing again, lovely lark of mine,
Sitting there alone in the green of May!
From the prison-tower thus the prisoner wrote,
Thus the prisoner wrote to his belovèd maid:
“O thou soul of mine! O thou lovely maid!
Truest love of mine, sweetest love of mine!
Save, O save, I pray, save the prisoned lad!”
Swiftly then exclaimed that belovèd maid:
“Come, attendant! Come! Come, my faithful nurse!
Servant faithful, you that long have faithful been,
Bring the golden key, bring the key with speed!
Ope the treasure chests, open them in haste;
Golden treasures bring, bring them straight to me:
Ransom him, I say, ransom the good lad,
He is my beloved, of my heart beloved.”
Sing, O sing again, lovely lark of mine,
Sitting there alone amidst the green of May!

—From Sir John Bowring’s Specimens of the Russian Poets, Part II.

WEDDING GEAR

The blacksmith from the forge comes he—Glory!
And carries with him hammers three—Glory!
O blacksmith, blacksmith, forge for me—Glory!
A wedding crown of gold, bran-new!—Glory!
A golden ring, oh, make me, do!—Glory!
With what is left a gold pin too!—Glory!
The crown on wedding day I’ll wear—Glory!
On golden ring my troth I’ll swear—Glory!
The pin will bind my veil to hair—Glory!

—From John Pollen’s Rhymes from the Russian.

THE SALE OF THE BRAID

It was not a horn that in the early morning sounded;
It was a maiden her ruddy braid lamenting:
“Last night they twined my braid together,
And interweaved my braid with pearls.
Luká Ivánovich—Heaven requite him!—
Has sent a pitiless svákha hither.
My braid has she begun to rend.
Tearing out the gold from my braid,
Shaking my pearls from my ruddy braids.”

—From W. R. S. Ralston’s The Songs of the Russian People.

MARRIAGE SONG

Her mother has counselled Máryushka,
Has given counsel to her dear Efímovna.
“Go not, my child,
Go not, my darling,
Into thy father’s garden for apples,
Nor catch the mottled butterflies,
Nor frighten the little birds,
Nor interrupt the clear-voiced nightingale.
For shouldst thou pluck the apples
The tree will wither away;
Or seize the mottled butterfly,
The butterfly will die.
And shouldst thou frighten a little bird,
That bird will fly away;
Or interrupt the clear-voiced nightingale,
The nightingale will be mute:
But catch, my child,
My dear one, catch
The falcon bright in the open field,
The green, the open field.”
Máryushka has caught,
Caught has the dear Efímovna,
The falcon bright in the open field,
The green, the open field.
She has perched him on her hand,
She has brought him to her mother.
“Mother mine, Gosudárynya,
I have caught the falcon bright.”

—From W. R. S. Ralston’s The Songs of the Russian People.

BEGGARS’ SONG

“Whither art Thou fleeing?” they spoke in tears to Christ. “For whom art Thou leaving us? Who will without Thee give us to drink and eat, will clothe us and protect us against dark night?”

“Weep not, poor people,” replied Christ: “Weep not, mendicants and homeless and small orphans! I will leave you a golden mountain, will give you a honeyed river, will give you vineyards, will give you heavenly manna. Only know how to manage that golden mountain, and to divide it among yourselves: and you will be fed and given drink; you will be clothed and covered up in dark nights.”

Then John the Theologue retorted: “Hail to Thee, real Christ, King of heaven! Permit me to tell Thee a few words, and take not ill my words! Give them not a golden mountain, nor a honeyed river and vineyards, give them not heavenly manna! They will not know how to manage that mountain; it will be beyond their strength, and they will not be able to divide up: they will not harvest the grapes, will not taste the manna. Princes and noblemen, pastors, officials and merchants will hear of that mountain, and they will take away from them the golden mountain and honeyed river, the vineyards and heavenly manna: they will divide up the golden mountain among themselves according to their ranks, but the poor people will not be admitted, and there will be much murder, and much spilling of blood. The poor will have nothing to live on, nothing to wear, and nothing to protect themselves with against dark night: the poor will die of starvation, will freeze to death in cold winter. Give them rather Thy holy name and Word of Christ; and the poor will go all over the earth, will glorify Thee, and the orthodox will give them alms; the poor will be fed and given drink, will be clothed and protected against cold night.”

“Thank you, John the Theologue!” replied Christ the heavenly King. “You have said a sensible word, and have discussed well,—you have taken good care of the poor.”

AN ORPHAN’S WAILING

O mother dear that bare me, O with sadness longed-for one! To whom hast thou left us, on whom are we orphans to rest our hopes? From no quarter do warm breezes breathe on us, we hear no words of kindness. Great folks turn away from us, our kinsfolk renounce us; rust eats into our orphaned hearts. The red sun burns in the midst of a hot summer, but us it keeps not: scarcely does it warm us, O green mother-grave! Have a care for us, mother dear, give us a word of kindness! No, thou hast hardened thy heart harder than stone, and hast folded thy uncaressing hand over thy heart.

O white cygnet! For what journey hast thou prepared and equipped thyself; from which side may we expect thee?

Arise, O ye wild winds, from all sides! Be borne, O winds, into the Church of God! Sweep open the moist earth! Strike, O wild winds, on the great bell! Will not its sounds and mine awaken words of kindness?—From Ralston’s The Songs of the Russian People.

CONJURATION OF A MOTHER SEPARATED FROM HER CHILD

I, poor mother, weep in the high chamber of my house; from the dawn I look afar over the fields, even until the sun goes to rest. There I sit until night, till the damp dew falls; there I sit in grief, until, weary of this torment, I resolve to conjure my cruel sorrow. I go into the field; I have taken the nuptial cup, the taper of betrothal and the handkerchief of marriage. I have drawn water from the mountain spring, I have gone into the dark forest, and tracing around me a magic circle, I have said aloud these words:—

“I conjure my dearest child by that nuptial cup, by that fresh water and by that marriage handkerchief. With that water I lave his fair face, with that handkerchief I wipe his honeyed lips, his sparkling eyes, his rosy cheeks, his thoughtful brow; with that waxen taper I light up his splendid garments, his sable bonnet, his belt of divers colours, his embroidered boots, his chestnut locks, his noble figure and manly limbs, that thou mayest be, my child, more brilliant than the brightest sunbeams, sweeter to look upon than a sweet spring day, fresher than water from the fountain, whiter than the wax, stronger than the magic stone. Far be from thee the demon of sorrow, the impetuous hurricane, the one-eyed spirit of the woods, the domestic demon of strange houses, the spirit of the waters, the sorcery of Kíev, the woman of the twinkling billows, the cursed Babayagá, the winged and fiery serpent, the crow of evil omen. I put myself between thee and the ogre, the false magician, the sorcerer, the evil magic, the seeing blind and the old of double sight. By my words of power, may thou be, my child, by night and by day, from hour to moment, in the market-place, and asleep or in watching, safe against the power of the evil spirits, against death, grief and calamity; upon the water, against shipwreck; in fire, against burning.

“When thy last hour shall come, recall, my child, our tender love, our bread and salt. Turn thyself towards thy glorious country, salute it seven times—seven times with thy face to the earth, bid farewell to thy family, throw thyself upon the damp ground and lull thyself to a calm sleep.

“May my word be stronger than water, higher than the mountain, weightier than gold, harder than rock, stronger than an armed horseman, and if any dare to bewitch my child, may he be swallowed by Mount Ararat, in bottomless precipices, in burning tar and crackling fire; that sorceries and magic may for ever be powerless against thee.”—From The Popular Songs of Russia, in Hogg’s Instructor, 1855.