Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
Old Folk-songs of UkrainaFlorence Randal Livesay, trans.
W
By the river flowing?
My father’s only child was I
In his house growing.
They made great bunches.
Such is my fortune—oh, unhappy fortune!
As I was bidden
I married—and, my blinded eyes,
Forever hidden,
Such is my fortune—oh, unhappy fortune!
Was there none other
Than he, the youth to whom they wed me,
Father and mother?
But dry the bed now.
And youths—brave, gallant youths—are countless;
But they are dead now!
A bride of Bukovina speaks:
Dear my mother, weep not—
I shall not take all;
See, the cows and oxen
Leave I in the stall.
Only eyes of blue;
And upon your table
Tears I leave for you;
Where my footsteps fell
While I brought you water
Daily from the well.
Pathway, little garden—
(Ah, she must depart!)
While I gaze upon you
Faints my breaking heart.
“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.”
Fragment of a very old song
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?
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!