SONGS OF UKRAINA
Ukrainian Song.... But do you know what the Ukraine is?
Where in Spring the warm wind breathes, bearing on its wings from “Earey” (Egypt) the myriads of grouse and other birds, and into the hearts of the people the paean of love; where the woods are carpeted with blue “prolisoks” and red “riast”; where Vesnianka, the “Lada” of Spring, with the assistance of vovkoolaks and spirits of the woods, is running through the forest scattering bloom, her song echoing over the whole country; where the sun is so bright and gay; where the willow tree in full blossom looks like a great yellow stack, orchards are white with cherry; where millions of nightingales sing all the night long—where Petrus so truly loves Natalka—
There is the Ukraine.
There is the Ukraine.
There is the Ukraine.
There is the Ukraine.
Where in the Summer the Dnieper is carrying down its broad yellow waters to empty theminto the bluish waves of the Black Sea; and upon the steeps of its mountainous right bank, like pyramids, the ancestral grave-hills stand, looking over the endless plains golden with ripening rye; where the little white huts of the villagers hide themselves in the green orchards of scarlet apples, yellow pears, purple prunes, musical with the humming of bees; where, beside a broad road, under a willow tree, a blind lirnik-beggar sits, singing a song of the vanished freedom; where the “grandsons” of that freedom mow the lush grass, with their scythes glistening in the hot sun, just as the sabres of their grandfathers flashed on the same field—
There is the Ukraine.
There is the Ukraine.
There is the Ukraine.
There is the Ukraine.
Where in Autumn in the wood on the peaceful bank of a Dunai the hopvine with its gold and bronze covers the bared branches of ash trees; where on cranberry bushes the red bunches burn in the rays of the Autumn sun like a circlet of rubies; where Marusina walks in the wood picking the berries and calling upon her fated one in her songs; where in the fields, now umber-coloured, the herds of cattle graze; where the poplar rustles sadly with her leaves yet green over a lonesome grave—as a maiden deserted byher lover; where, when the leaves fall, the night-heaven is so darkly blue and the stars so bright—
This is Ukraina.
This is Ukraina.
This is Ukraina.
This is Ukraina.
Where in Winter Witch-Marina with snow white as swansdown covers the fields, making of them an endless white sea; where Frost-Moroze with its magic power changes fog into rime and sleet, transforms the forests into silver coral jungles of the undersea kingdom; where in gayety the people know how to spend the whole winter season, entertained by folk-drama; where hymns to the pagan goddess Lada are heard at Christmas;
Where the red foxes, seeking refuge in tall “ocherets,” or bulrushes, and hares lying in utter stillness on the hillocks, shall hear the stamping of horses’ hoofs, the baying of hounds and the sudden clamour of the horn—
There is Ukraina.
There is Ukraina.
There is Ukraina.
There is Ukraina.
Where on the summits of the Carpathians old oaks and pines murmur, and the native Hutzul in white embroidered shirt and red breeches plays on his trimbeeta amid his grazing flocks in the mountain meadow; where on a dark night thunder roars and the lightning plays on the white breasts of beech-trees; where Dobushsleeps with his robber Oprishki, in a rocky cave under the Chorna-Hora, waiting for the summons to arise once more against the enemies of the Ukraine—
There is the Highland of the Ukrainian.
There is the Highland of the Ukrainian.
There is the Highland of the Ukrainian.
There is the Highland of the Ukrainian.
Where the southern prairies meet the waves of the Black Sea, and grey eagles circle in the heavens watching the numberless herds of sheep; where the Dnieper’s cataracts roar, dashing down to the Khortitsa Island, asking it: “Where are the banners of the hetmans and the cannons of old?” There, where a black cloud covers heaven from Lyman, the Mount of the Dnieper, in the semblance of the dragon of the fairy tales—
There are the Zaporogian Steppes.
There are the Zaporogian Steppes.
There are the Zaporogian Steppes.
There are the Zaporogian Steppes.
And the ages passed over the Ukraine.... “In the beginning” black-haired Scythians came from Ariastan to the Ukraine with their herds—later, the race was crossed with blue-eyed, white-haired Finns; both disappeared and the tall, dark brown-eyed, fair-haired Ukrainian arose, the beneficent gods Yoor and Lada nursing him in his cradle.
Mongolians came from Asia, and Ghingiz-Khan built his pyramids of men’s skulls....And on the Steppes, on the Kalka river the brave Russichi barred the way to the Polovets, with scarlet shields, and all fell for the motherland. Still, the Mongolian waves rolling over the Ukrainian rock were unable to devastate Europe. The Khan turned back, civilisation was saved, but the Ukraine was covered with corpses, on whose bones Cossacks arose who again checked the Tartars. There in the Ukraine was Freedom personified by the Zaporogian Cossack, in blue zhupan and red breeches, mounted on his grey horse.
Seven feet deep is the black soil of Ukraina, bringing forth from one seed one hundred and twenty fold. Poles, Turks, and Muscovites began to press forward, eager to grasp the land flowing with milk and honey and bind her as a captive. Long centuries the sabre of the Cossack flashed beheading invaders from all parts of the world. At last it was shivered and broken!
Now naught is left of Ukraina save her songs—but in that song she still lives, engraved in the heart of the people. Let it be sung, and before your eyes you shall resurrect the dead centuries.
The Ukrainians sing their Kolady, Vesnianky, Kupalni—and the ancient gods of theSun and Thunder are again alive, adversaries of Christianity.
The bride-maidens sing the wedding songs, and ancient days come back when a wild youth gathered a band of the boys of his tribe and raided another village to kidnap a maiden. All her relatives rose to defend her, and sometimes only after a bloody fight did the bridegroom carry his bride safely home. A thousand years passed, and only song was left to show that such barbarous days had ever been.
In the troublous days that followed, when the Cossacks ringed Ukraina with the terrible circle of their sabres, they sang of Freedom; and even now those songs will stir a man’s blood and make him long to leap on a horse and gallop over the broad steppes, “swift to the fields of Freedom.”
Moscow, Tartary, Lithuania, Poland, Turkey—what neighbours!—the Hetmans, wars and revolutions—at length the fall of Seech, the last stand of Ukrainian freedom—the whole Ukrainian history was put into song by the Kobzars, the rhapsodists, and if the Ukraine has lost her written history it is still preserved in her historical songs.
The period of bondage and feudalism began in 1771. The Cossacks had disappeared, buttheir place was taken by the avengers of the people’s sorrows—Robbers, Haidomaki, Oprishki—the Ukrainian Robin Hoods—and their deeds also are recorded in their songs. The bitter fate of the feudal slave sighs in the song of the Ukrainian woman—before, a free Cossachka, now the slave of her husband, with no rights of her own. Full of self-pity and sorrow are the “Songs of Unhappy Women.” The sons of Cossacks became Tchumaks and tramps; they wrote their songs on their broken hearts.... But eternal song, that of love, of the nightingale’s voice, and the cherry blossom, is the same everywhere—unchangeable—young, charming, immortal!
Italian songs are glorious, but the singing of the Ukrainian is also a precious pearl in the common treasury of mankind. It was born out of the beauty of the Ukraine, and it is beautiful; it was born on the steppes, and as the steppes it is wide; it was born in battles, and it is free; it was born of the tear of a lonesome girl, and it rends the heart; it was born of the thoughts of the Kobzars and its harmonies are pregnant with thoughts—
This is Ukrainian Song.
This is Ukrainian Song.
This is Ukrainian Song.
This is Ukrainian Song.
PAUL CRATH.
PAUL CRATH.
PAUL CRATH.
PAUL CRATH.