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[44]
KHUSTINA—THE BETROTHAL KERCHIEF
Taras Shevchenko
· · · · ·
“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.”
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.
“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.
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 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.
· · · · ·
· · · · ·