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