RHYTHMS

“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]

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 banksof 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 Ishould 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.

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.”

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.

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.

For never before had a soldier been her lover:

And never again would a soldier be one.

The Red Cranberry has witheredOver 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 casementAs my mother comes.She asks of my little ones:“Is the drunkard home?”Carefully, softlyEnter, 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 headBring no more grief.”“Oi, my mother!Abuse not my drunkard.Tiny are my children—Without himWould it not be worse?”

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 casementAs my mother comes.She asks of my little ones:“Is the drunkard home?”

I open the casement

As my mother comes.

She asks of my little ones:

“Is the drunkard home?”

Carefully, softlyEnter, my mother!My drunkard sleeps,Sleeps in the barn—See thou wake him not!

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 headBring no more grief.”

“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 himWould it not be worse?”

“Oi, my mother!

Abuse not my drunkard.

Tiny are my children—

Without him

Would it not be worse?”

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 MotherSorrow 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?

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.

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 MotherSorrow so heavy overtakes me that I can hardly bear it.

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?

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?

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 creatureAnd I said: “Now hasten out of my sight.I never saw such a stupid person,Who says one thing and means another!”

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 creatureAnd I said: “Now hasten out of my sight.I never saw such a stupid person,Who says one thing and means another!”

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!”

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