| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | Old Folk-songs of Ukraina | | By Florence Randal Livesay, trans. |
| | THE KALINA
WAS I not once the red cranberry | |
| By the river flowing? | |
| My father’s only child was I | |
| In his house growing. | |
| |
| But they plucked the boughs of the Kalina, | 5 |
| They made great bunches. | |
| Such is my fortune—oh, unhappy fortune! | |
| |
| And on a day they married me. | |
| As I was bidden | |
| I married—and, my blinded eyes, | 10 |
| Forever hidden, | |
| |
| The world grew dark upon that morning. | |
| Such is my fortune—oh, unhappy fortune! | |
| |
| Is there no river that I may drown in? | |
| Was there none other | 15 |
| Than he, the youth to whom they wed me, | |
| Father and mother? | |
| |
| Rivers a-plenty can be found here, | |
| But dry the bed now. | |
| And youths—brave, gallant youths—are countless; | 20 |
| But they are dead now! | |
| |
SONG OF DEPARTURE
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. | 25 |
| |
| I take just black eyebrows, | |
| Only eyes of blue; | |
| And upon your table | |
| Tears I leave for you; | |
| |
| And the little pathway | 30 |
| Where my footsteps fell | |
| While I brought you water | |
| Daily from the well. | |
| |
Her mother speaks:
Pathway, little garden— | |
| (Ah, she must depart!) | 35 |
| While I gaze upon you | |
| Faints my breaking heart. | |
| |
RUTHENIAN LOVERS
“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— | 40 |
| So do I live without thee, the good Lord giving his grace.” | |
| |
MY FIELD, MY FIELD
Fragment of a very old song
O my field, my field! | |
| Ploughed with bones, | |
| Harrowed with my breast, | |
| Watered with blood | 45 |
| From the heart, from the bosom— | |
| Tell me, my field, | |
| When will better days be? | |
| |
| My field, O my field | |
| By my grandfather won, | 50 |
| 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, | 55 |
| To look on thee! | | | | |
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