The Project Gutenberg eBook of Songs of Ukraina, with Ruthenian poems
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Title: Songs of Ukraina, with Ruthenian poems
Author: Florence Randal Livesay
Author of introduction, etc.: P. Krat
Release date: February 8, 2024 [eBook #72903]
Language: English
Original publication: London: J. M. Dent & Sons, Ltd, 1916
Credits: Richard Tonsing, Charlene Taylor, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF UKRAINA, WITH RUTHENIAN POEMS ***
Transcriber’s Note:
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.
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.
Where in the Summer the Dnieper is carrying
down its broad yellow waters to empty them
10into 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.
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 by
11her lover; where, when the leaves fall, the night-heaven
is so darkly blue and the stars so bright—
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.
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 Dobush
12sleeps 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.
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.
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....
13And 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 the
14Sun 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, but
15their 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.
PAUL CRATH.
17
NOTE BY TRANSLATOR
The Songs, alas! must lack their native music; of the
land which evoked them Mr. Paul Crath has written
with a poet’s pen. It remains for me just to say a
few words about the people who sing the songs and
(with one digression) I will quote a few extracts from
French and Ukrainian essayists:—
“The Ukrainian is a race purely Slav, gay, chivalrous,
made thoughtful by its own steppes—a race of poets,
musicians, artists who have fixed for all time their
national history in the songs of the people which no
centuries of oppression could silence. The singers—the
Kobzars—accompany themselves on the kobza while
they sing the glories of the Ukraine. All art with them
is national, from the building of their tiny huts to the
embroideries which adorn their clothes and which are
distinguished for their originality all over the East.”
“Here is a people, one of the most numerous of
Europe and nevertheless one of the least known. They
have not even an assured name. They are called Little
Russians to distinguish them from the mass of the
Russian people—they are called Ukrainian because
they inhabit the frontier between Poland and Russia;
one of the branches (in Austrian Galicia) bears the name
of Ruthenian.... In the nineteenth century this
oppressed people revealed to the world the puissance of
18its artistic gifts. The Ukrainians became the first singers
of Europe; the celebrated Russian music is the music
of the Ukraine, and it is an Ukrainian, Gogol, who has
opened the way to the Russian romancers of genius.”—Charles
Seignobos, Professor at the Sorbonne.
“In the Russian Ukraine the nobles, descendants of
the line of the Cossacks, and the clergy had closely
guarded the remembrance of the grandeur, the glory, and
the independence of the Ukraine. Living in contact
with a people which had preserved its language, songs,
and customs, they turned to it to know it better....
Collections of popular songs by Maximovich, Dragomanov,
Shesnevsky, Zerteleff, etc., began to be made
around 1820 and in the second half of the nineteenth
century. Soon romantic poets found this field—Kvitka
outstripped George Sand and Auerbach.... Towards
1840 the great poet Shevchenko (1814–1861) combined
by his genius all that was most profound in universal
poetry with the genre of the popular poetry of the
Ukraine. A great poet and a great citizen, his name is
sacred to all Ukrainians.”
Mrs. E. L. Voynich has published six lyrics from the
mass of this poet’s work, all of which is practically
unknown to English readers. Many of his writings,
however, are to be included in the “Slavonic Classics”
now under way.
Immigrants, self-exiled, still sing, putting trivial
incidents or dreadful affrays, happenings in their old
villages, into legend and song. From several of these
19living in Winnipeg I obtained old ballads and folk-songs
set to minor airs. Russalka on ironing days was a
concert in herself! I remember how she told me the
song made by a local poet in her old home when a
faithless bride was murdered by her conscript lover.
Anastasia could not wait three years—but the soldier
came to her wedding.
This is the song:—
“From the other side of the hill
A stormy wind is blowing.
Would that I knew what my sweetheart is doing!
O my love, dost thou wish now to be mine?”
“Come then—for we may marry some day. But first
of all thou must bring me next Sunday some flowers of
Trezilie” (poisonous herb).
“I have a saddle horse in my stable—surely I will
mount and ride to get the flowers. Very hard are they
to get, very long is the way to the forest where they
grow—yet shall I ride swiftly and get them for my love.”
“I went to the forest and found the Zilie between
two elm trees. I dismounted and began to dig. Zuzula
flew near and sang: ‘Spare your pains, young soldier,
dig no more. Your sweetheart is fooling you, she weds
another to-day.’
“Then I rode in haste till I reached the courtyard of
her home. Her friends came to meet me, put my horse
in the stable, gave me to eat and drink, invited me to
the wedding dance.
“I did not come down to dance and drink. I came
down to say two words only to my sweetheart....
20With my right hand I took the hand of the bride; with
my left I took my revolver and shot her.”
So his sweetheart fell between her dorohynki (bridesmaids),
as a star pales between two sunrise clouds.
Some of the poems included in this volume have
appeared in Poet Lore (Boston); Poetry (Chicago); The
Craftsman (New York); Everyman (Edinburgh); Canada
Monthly (London, Ontario); University Magazine
(Montreal). To the publishers of these magazines my
thanks are due for permission to reproduce the poems
in question. I would like to acknowledge gratefully
the help given me in translation by MM. Paul Crath,
Ivan Petrushevich, and A. Malofie.
(This Cossack song of the seventeenth century is
sung to a mournful air which makes a splendid
funeral march. Morozenko was an Ukrainian
Governor of a province killed in war with the
Tartars.)
Trenches along the foot of the mountain—
They took Morozenko on Sunday morning.
The Tartars nor slashed him, nor pierced him with spears;
They tore out the heart from the white, white breast,
“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]
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 banks
84of 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 I
85should 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.
BURIAL OF THE SOLDIER
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.”
So they bore him, leading his horse before him;
behind the coffin his mother walked, weeping.
86Even 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.
THE DRUNKARD
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 casement
As my mother comes.
She asks of my little ones:
“Is the drunkard home?”
Carefully, softly
Enter, my mother!
87My 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.
88O 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 Mother
Sorrow so heavy overtakes me that I can hardly bear it.
89There is no flower in this world prettier than the Cranberry:
O wild horses—where are ye running over the steppes?
Where is she—the maid with the lovers three?
Where is that wheat which bloomed with a white flower?
Where is the maiden with beauty of black eyebrows?
Where is the wheat—Can I not reap it?
Where is the damsel—Can I not wed her?
· · · · ·
“I had not come her gates within,
Nor sat me down her bread to break—
I stood without on the threshold bare:
She had poison ready in wheaten cake.”
· · · · ·
On a Thursday morn the Soldier came:
On the Thursday noon the youth lay dead.
On the Friday to the open grave
Before his bier his horse they led.
Behind his corse his mother wept....
The maiden’s mother thus did chide:
“O daughter mine! What hast thou done?
Was it through thee thy lover died?”
96“My mother dear, what was to do?
My heart could find no other way.
My soldier love had sweethearts two—
So lies he cold upon this day.
“I would not have him—so he died—
I would not have him—he sleeps sound.
Nor shall she ever in this world
Hold him who lies in the damp ground.”
THE DAUGHTER OF THE WITCH
(Variant)
(Song in a play—“Go not to the Wechernyci,[55] Hritz”)
“Go not, I pray thee, to the dance, Hritz!
For there await thee daughters of the witch.
“They burn the straw beneath the bubbling roots—
They’ll take your life just when their wish it suits.
“That one with black, black eyes—most potent witch is she;
She knows all roots that grow by river or by tree.
97“She knows what each distils—and she loves you!
With envious love she watches what you do.”
Sunday morn she dug the roots;
Monday, cleaned them; Tuesday, brewed;
Wednesday from her cup Hritz
Drank; on Thursday he lay dead;
Friday comrades buried him.
Greatly mourned the maidens all;
Comrades, much lamenting, cursed
Her who brought about his death:
“Hritz, was never one like thee!
May the devil take the witch!”
On Saturday the old witch beat full sore
Her wicked daughter, crying o’er and o’er,
“Why did you poison him? Did you not know
What all the roots could tell you? Ere cock-crow
That he must die?” “O mother, speak not so;
“There are no scales for sorrow—why did he
Make love to her, saying he loved but me?
For this, O Hritz, your just reward I gave—
A dark house of four planks—a grave, a grave!”
98
SONG OF VDOVÀ—(THE WIDOW)
O’er the Steppes rode he, the Cossack,
Vdovà was dwelling there—
“Dobry den! Good day, poor widow,
Is all well? How dost thou fare?
“I but ask a drink of water—
Widow, with thy husband fled,
Wilt thou give it for the asking?”...
“How knew’st thou that he was dead?”
“By thy garden I could tell it—
Sad and lonesome is the sight.
And thy heart is ever grieving:
Tell me then—am I not right?
“In the garden of the widow
Coreopsis blossoms not,
Never blooms a single flower
In so desolate a spot.”
(In the garden of the widow,
Yea, in truth the wild weeds grow.
But her children they are tended,
And a mother’s love they know.)
“The rain, O the rain
On her unploughed field!
What should be the yield?
99Who is fain, who is fain
For Vdovà to toil,
On the weed-grown soil?
With fine, fine tears it is raining now....
When one comes from the tomb
Vdovà shall plough!”
THE TWO LOVERS
(Fragment)
The wild wind bloweth ever,
The tree’s high branches shaking.
His letter cometh never—
And ah, my heart is breaking!
O cruel wind, ever teasing!
The man I’ll soon be hating
Keeps writing without ceasing—
How long my heart is waiting!
SONG—THE BROKEN ENGAGEMENT
Between the two dark clouds
The moon comes out with light.
A little higher than the moon
There is a bird in flight.
O weary, weary are the wings the sky enshrouds!
Wings that have tired too soon.
100Ah, woe is for the heart
That loved, nor ever changed.
That ever loved so true
What skies soe’er it ranged.
But weary, weary are the wings that must depart—
Wings that have tired of you!
THE DISTANT SWEETHEART
High is the mountain-top—
But there’s a lower peak.
Far away lives my love;
Nearer a girl’s to seek.
Oxen and cows hath she—
My love of far away,
Loveliness only holds;
Yet is she rich to-day.
Linen all bleached and white
Lies in my neighbour’s chest—
Ah, but an eyebrow black
Counts more than all the rest!
Fair maid so close to me,
What leagues are we apart—
Over the hills to thee
I come, I come, Sweetheart!
101
THE ENCHANTRESS
My girl tricked me—
But she’s so nice why should I mind?
Mother! Could’st thou a nicer find
To be the wife of this thy son?
Nay, there was never such a one.
But ah, she’s such a little tease,
My love, who’s like red cranberries!
The beauty of her eyebrows! Fain
Am I to tell you once again
How like the clouds they seem to be.
They make strange weakness steal o’er me;
Her glances burn me—O the gold
And red of sunset skies unrolled!
Her scarlet lips of such allure!
(The torment I each day endure!)
Like plums all downy to the touch,
Ah, ’tis her lips I love so much!
And yet—her cheeks have havoc wrought—
Has she a witch’s philtre sought?
Don’t fool me, little sweetheart, pray.
As minnows in the water play
So would you slip and slide and turn
102The while my heart must glow and burn.
My heart has reached its utmost bounds,
Yet still that fire gnaws, surrounds.
Then, if you love me, plague me not.
You will not lose. See what you’ve got.
But, if you love me not, my own,
Charm me until I too am stone.
You’ll lose if you don’t love, I swear,
But—charm me—maybe I won’t care!
THE DYING SOLDIER
This song has many variants—the introductory
portion of this version was given me by a
peasant woman—while a young Ruthenian
girl, whose brother was a soldier, said she had
often heard him sing the words following:—
Ще не вмерла Україна і слава і воля, Ще нам, братя молодії усьміхнеть ся доля! Згинуть наші вороженьки, як роса на сонці, Запануєм і ми, братя, у своїй сторонцї. Душу, тїло ми положим за нашу свободу, І покажем, що ми, братя, козацького роду!
174
UKRAINIAN NATIONAL ANTHEM
(This anthem has several variants; one of these,
seemingly the most popular, is chosen for the
two stanzas here translated.)
She lives on, our Ukraina!
Her freedom and glory—
Let us hope that once more fortune
May illume Her story.
Like the dew before the sunshine
Our foes disappearing,
We shall rule, Oh, youthful brethren!
Our land, nothing fearing.
Chorus. Soul and body sacrificing
For our freedom cherished,
We shall show we are the sons of
Mighty Cossacks perished!
Nalivaiko and Zalizniak
And Trasílo—falling—
Urge us to our sacred duty,
From the grave-hills calling!
175Let us keep in our remembrance
Deaths of Cossacks knightly,
For our youth, our splendid manhood,
We would not spend lightly.
Chorus. Soul and body sacrificing
For our freedom cherished,
We shall show we are descendants
Of great Cossacks perished!
The Letchworth Temple Press England
1. These Pagan songs are very hard to find uncorrupted. In an
ancient “Koladka” we find such words as these: “In the
forest under the oak-tree seeds are planted; on the seeds youths
and maidens are seated and they sing the song Ko Ladi; fire
burns under the cattle and an old man sharpens a knife to kill a
goat.”
“Ko” means “to”; the young people sing a hymn to their
beloved goddess Lada. The “old man” is a priest, sacrificing
the offering.—(Crath.)
2. Kupalo is the dragon-frost—Muroze, or Koschey; he died,
and as snow-water floated down the streams. Symbolically, the
Ukrainians, on the day of Ivan-Kupalo, throw his image into
the water, and maidens fling garlands on the river and judge of
their fortunes by the progress of the wreaths.
The priests, being unable to rid the peasants’ minds of
“Kupalo’s Day,” adopted the simple expedient of bracketing him
with the Christian St. John (Ivan). The 24th of June
(July 7) is the latter’s feast day, but the country folk call it
still “The Day of the Bathing of John.” In the Ukraine on
that day maidens sing special songs, and most engagements are
or were celebrated on this feast.
“And during the same three days he is called a Duke and she
a Dutchess, although they be very poor persons.”—(Anthony
Jenkinson’s Letters from Russia, 1557, as given by Hakluyt.)
7. As the rose in our love songs so in those of Ukraina does the
Cranberry or Kalina bloom—the symbol of beauty. Maidens are
always being compared to it, and one sings: “Would I were red
as a cranberry, for then never was I sad; my lips and cheeks were
scarlet, but now they are pale.” The German story of the
“Juniper Tree” finds its counterpart in the Cranberry-bush of
the Ruthenians. A young girl was murdered, so runs the tale, and
her relatives placed the Kalina on her grave. From a branch of
this her brother made a flute—immediately a voice sighed:
“Brother, play not so loud—do not bring sorrow to my heart!”
8. Barwēnok: evergreen marriage flower, periwinkle.
“Barwēnok,” so often mentioned in the folk-songs in connection
with marriage—sometimes it is placed on graves—is a
creeping vine, green among the snows of winter. It is akin in
meaning to the Polish “meert” or myrtle.
“Little Barwēnok,
You creep, creep low on the face of the earth,
So, O Barwēnok, may my lover ever stay—as close, as near to me.”
On the 24th of June when the passing of Kupalo, God of
Frost, was celebrated, the girls of Southern Russia made wreaths
of Barwēnok and mallow and threw them into the streams. If a
garland were sucked down beneath the waters death was the
omen, while if it floated the maiden to whom it belonged would
be wed within the year.
9. Kryschati: crossed, in allusion to its appearance.
10. This rich bread, ornamented with braiding and other decorations,
is the chief feature at the wedding feast.
14. “Unmarried Ukrainian girls wear their back hair hanging in a
long single plait, adorned with ribbons, and sometimes covered
with flowers. This plait, called kosa, is a maiden’s chief ornament,
the cherished object of her care. Its unplaiting is the sign of the
change which is coming upon her. The married women wear their
hair in two plaits wound round the head and covered by a
kerchief.”
“Pan Kanovsky” is a type of the insolence of power in the
days of feudalism in the Ukraine. Then great “pans” or lords
had their harems as much as any Turk. This particular landlord
who owned the town of Bohuslav is a semi-historical personage.
Many incidents centre round him. He is once said to have met
an old woman picking up fallen wood in his domain. He ordered
her to climb a tree and call “Cuckoo.” When she did so, he
fired at her and brought her to the ground. Another little habit
of his was to stick a needle and thread in the lapel of his coat
and ask each peasant whom he met: “Have you needle and
thread?” (i.e. the means to mend your clothes). If they said
“No,” as of course they did, he proceeded to beat them soundly
for being improvident creatures.
20. The Hetman Mazeppa, who was himself a Kobzar, composed
this song among others. The story goes that when he was an old
man he visited an Ukrainian official, set in high places, named
Kotchubei. When he played on the kobza and sang of the ancient
glories of the Ukraine, Kotchubei’s young daughter, like Desdemona,
listened entranced, and finally asked him to marry
her. He refused, saying that he was too old, but nevertheless she
fled to him, bringing tragedy on her house. Ultimately she went
insane, when Mazeppa took refuge with the Turks after the
battle of Poltava.
21. “Tchyka-Bird” is the poetical name for the Ukraine. The
plaintive cry of this bird—“ki-hi”—makes the hearer feel that
the Tchyka, or “Mother,” so devoted a parent, is full of woe.
She is here compared to unhappy Ukraine.
22. The Tartars played the same part in Ukrainian history as the
Indians in America. They established their kingdom in the
Crimea and time after time invaded Ukraine, pillaging it, and
selling the inhabitants in Turkish slave markets. Later, they
intermarried largely with the Ukrainians.
23. Many legends centre around the Cossack Bida (or Bighda),
an Ukrainian Prince, whose real name was Dmitro Vishnivetzki.
He it was who established “Seech”—the ancient stronghold of
the Cossacks. He became famous for his raids on the Turks. The
verses above given were written of one of his most noted exploits,
if tradition is to be believed. He was captured by the Turks.
Told that he was to marry the Sultan’s daughter he emphatically
declined the honour, saying that her religion was distasteful to
him. Now on the walls of Constantinople there were huge iron
hooks and the Sultan commanded his soldiers to hang Bida from
these by the ribs. By a ruse his servant came near him and
managed to bring him a bow and arrow, as directed. When the
Sultan came to see if he had had a change of heart the Prince
raised his weapon and killed the Sultan, his wife, and his daughter.
30. Zaporogians: at the mouth of the Dnieper river was an
island called Hortitsa; Count Dmitro Vishnivetzki (Baida)
placed there two thousand Cossacks in a fortress to protect
Ukraina from the invasion of the Tartars. Then this fortress—called
“Seech”—became the refuge of every kind of outlaw
from Poland and the Ukraine. Later a semi-monastic order of
Knights was organised to fight unbelievers. Time passed, and
“Seech” became a military high school for Eastern Europe.
The Cossacks fought to keep the Tartars in the Crimea and made
raids on Turkey, with Constantinople as special objective. When
the Town Cossacks revolted against Poland, the Zaporogian
Cossacks joined them and their stronghold became the refuge
of Ukrainian democracy. In 1775 Seech was destroyed by
Catherine II.
33. In the Ukraine at the end of the eighteenth and beginning of
the nineteenth century the Oprishki, or outlaws of the Carpathians,
and the robbers of the Ukraine, were so famed that in
several instances they have become legendary heroes. History
gives us three great outlaws: In the Poltava Government,
Harkusha; in Kiev, Karmeluk; and in the Carpathians, where
the tongue of the Hutzuls was spoken, Alexa Dobush. These
brigands were like our English Robin Hood, robbing only the
rich and dividing the spoil among the poor.
34. Topeer: Hutzul weapon, stick with iron barb, a battle-axe.
52. Povna rozha: the mallow. On the Day of Kupalo, the old
Pagan god of the Ukraine, maidens thread the mallow flowers
together and make a wreath which they throw on the water. If
it floats the damsel will be married; if it stops, she will not be
wed that year; if swept under by the current, she will herself die.
53. Dunai: river. The age of the song can be determined, as in
many other cases, by the use of this word.
54. It is the custom of Ukraina to cover its dead soldiers with a
red silk kerchief.
57. In Bukowina it used to be too often the fate of the girl of
sixteen or thereabouts to be “thrown to a lover” of her mother’s
choice regardless of her own passion for another. “Mothers in
Austria are like step-mothers,” said a Ruthenian girl to the
writer in explanation of this poem. Many a young girl has
drowned herself when she found that her dreams of happiness
might not come true.
63. Verbatim: “likha,” fem. of “likho.” The adjective “likho”
has two opposite meanings, sometimes signifying what is evil,
hurtful, malicious; sometimes what is bold, vigorous, and therefore
to be admired. As a substantive “likho” conveys the idea
of something malevolent or unfortunate. But the peasantry also
describe by Likho an evil spirit, a sort of devil—“When Likho
sleeps, awake it not” is a Polish and South Russian proverb.—Ralston.
The music for this song is captivating and haunts one; the
first two lines are slow, the rest of the measure being in quick,
lively time.
67. Wasylki: hyssop. These flowers are used to wreathe the
candle held by the bride at her wedding. There is also here the
idea of magic properties in the flowers which the maid, who wishes
to marry her lover, has planted. This song has a lilting air. The
first four lines are andantino, the refrain allegro.
68. “The Dream Herb” (a species of anemone) is in the Ukraine
considered as something weird and uncanny. It is called
Son-travà, literally Dream-grass, and has a flower like a little
bell. Maidens pluck it to place under their pillows in early
spring, that they may dream of their lovers. But by the rest
of the world it is regarded with awe and superstitious fears.
72. The fables and songs told him as a child by an invalid sister
first turned the thoughts of the Bukovinian poet, Fedkovich,
towards poetry. He was born in 1834, his mother being an
unlearned peasant, full of superstition. These songs, heard as a
child, he wove into music when serving in the army, and to the
unknown poet, his sister, is really due part of his fame, she having
inspired him by her fancy.
After living for some time in Czernowitz and Moldavia the
boy of eighteen joined the Austrian army and seven years later
was made an officer, taking part in the Italian wars of 1859, when
the Austrians opposed the French. On his return to Bukovina
Fedkovich found that his writings had a wide popularity, and he
soon made the acquaintance of some well-known patriots who
encouraged him to write in Ruthenian, for up till then he had
been composing in German. In 1861 his first sixteen poems were
printed in Ruthenian, and a year later a larger edition of his
works was published. In 1872 he moved to Lemberg, but city
life palled on him and he ended his days in the free country life
of Bukovina, dying in 1888. His work is marked by great lyrical
beauty.
Silently corrected palpable typographical errors; retained non-standard spellings and
dialect.
Reindexed footnotes using numbers and collected together at the end of the last
chapter.
The music files are the music transcriber’s interpretation of the printed notation
and are placed in the public domain.
In the original score, the tenor part is shown as a regular treble clef, and is
understood to be sang an octave lower. To achieve the same results in modern music
notation, the octave treble clef with the number 8 printed below is known as the vocal
tenor clef. It plays the music an octave lower.
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