(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.