WITH the Lord at Nemirov | |
| Sir Sava dined so gladly; | |
| Nor thought he that his life | |
| Would end so soon and sadly. | |
| |
| Sir Sava he rode home | 5 |
| To his own court with speed; | |
| And plenty of good oats | |
| He bids to give his steed. | |
| |
| Sir Sava behind his table | |
| To write with care begun, | 10 |
| His young wife she is rocking | |
| In the cradle her infant son. | |
| |
| “Holloa! my lad, brisk butler, | |
| Bring now the brandy to me; | |
| My well-beloved lady, | 15 |
| This glass I drink to thee. | |
| |
| “Holloa! my lad, brisk butler, | |
| Now bring me the clear wine; | |
| This glass and this, I drink it | |
| To this dear son of mine. | 20 |
| |
| “Holloa! my lad, brisk butler, | |
| Now bring me the mead so fast; | |
| My head aches sore; I fear | |
| I ’ve rode and drunk my last!” | |
| |
| Who knocks? who storms so fiercely? | 25 |
| Sir Sava looks up to know; | |
| The Lesches stand before him, | |
| And quick accost him so: | |
| |
| “We bow to thee, Sir Sava, | |
| How far’st thou, tell us now? | 30 |
| To thy guests from the Ukraina, | |
| What welcome biddest thou?” | |
| |
| “What could I bid you brethren, | |
| To-day in welcome’s stead? | |
| Well know I ye are come | 35 |
| To take my poor sick head.” | |
| |
| “And tell us first, Sir Sava, | |
| Where are thy daughters fair?”— | |
| “They are stolen by the Lesches, | |
| And wash their linen there.” | 40 |
| |
| “Now to the fight be ready! | |
| Sir Sava, meet thy lot! | |
| Thy head is lost! one moment, | |
| Death meets thee on the spot.” | |
| |
| The sabre whizzes through the air, | 45 |
| Like wild bees in the wood; | |
| The young wife of Sir Sava | |
| By him a widow stood. | |
| |
