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From “Old Folk Songs of Ukraina”
BLACK, oh, black was once the plowing—hai, hai! | |
| The black plowland they’re re-plowing | |
| And the sowing is of bullets. | |
| Harrowed by the white, white body—hai, hai!— | |
| Washed with blood now is the plowing. | 5 |
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| On a hillock lies a warrior—hai, hai! | |
| Lies the warrior on a hillock, | |
| Red kitaika on his eyelids— | |
| Red, how red! A silken kerchief—hai, hai!— | |
| Blinds his eyes, the red kitaika. | 10 |
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| Here’s no coffin, here’s no grave-hole—hai, hai! | |
| Here’s no coffin, here’s no grave dug; | |
| Here’s no father and no mother, | |
| No one to set bells a-tolling—hai, hai!— | |
| Ne’er a one to ring the death-knell. | 15 |
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| Only hoofs of horses ringing—hai, hai! | |
| Only hoofs of horses ringing, | |
| With the jingling spurs of comrades. | |
| Only horse’s hoof a-ringing—hai, hai!— | |
| Only jingling spur of comrade. | 20 |
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| From a strange land swift a crow flies—hai, hai! | |
| From a strange land swift a crow flies— | |
| On the grave-hill it is sitting: | |
| Drinking of dead eyes it sits there—hai, hai!— | |
| Of the dead eyes it is drinking. | 25 |
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| And a mother walks and calls there—hai, hai! | |
| Calling, crying, roams the mother, | |
| For her dead son ever looking. | |
| “Oi, I know thy son, thy dear son—hai, hai!— | |
| For on him I have been feasting.” | 30 |
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| “Wilt thou tell me of thy kindness”—hai, hai!— | |
| “Little crow, I pray thee tell me | |
| If my dear son be yet living? | |
| Are his eyes as gray as ever?”—hai, hai! | |
| “Are his lips red as kalina?” | 35 |
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| “Blue and cold now are his red lips—hai, hai! | |
| Blue already are the red lips; | |
| Black with death his hair is lying; | |
| On his face I have been perching—hai, hai! | |
| And his eyes I have been drinking!” | 40 |
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