Russian Lyrics | Page 2

AND COSSACK SONGS

THE SONG OF THE KAZAK
Kazak speeds ever toward the North, Kazak has never heart for rest, Not on the field, nor in the wood, Nor when in face of danger pressed His steed the raging stream must breast!
Kazak speeds ever toward the North, With him a mighty power brings, To win the honour of his land Kazak his life unheeding flings-- Till fame of him eternal sings!
Kazak brought all Siberia At foot of Russia's throne to lie, Kazak left glory in the Alps, His name the Turk can terrify, His flag he ever carries high!
Kazak speeds ever toward the North, Kazak has never heart for rest, Not on the field, nor in the wood, Nor when in face of danger pressed His steed the raging stream must breast!
PUSHKIN.
_The accent in singing falls sharply on the second half--Kaz��k_.

CRADLE SONG OF A COSSACK MOTHER
Slumber sweet, my fairest baby, Slumber calmly, sleep-- Peaceful moonbeams light thy chamber, In thy cradle creep; I will tell to thee a story, Pure as dewdrop glow, Close those two beloved eyelids-- Lullaby, By-low!
List! The Terek o'er its pebbles Blusters through the vale, On its shores the little Khirgez Whets his murdrous blade; Yet thy father grey in battle-- Guards thee, child of woe, Safely rest thee in thy cradle, Lullaby, By-low!
Grievous times will sure befall thee, Danger, slaughterous fire-- Thou shalt on a charger gallop, Curbing at desire; And a saddle girth all silken Sadly I will sew, Slumber now my wide-eyed darling, Lullaby, By-low!
When I see thee, my own Being, As a Cossack true, Must I only convoy give thee-- "Mother dear, adieu!" Nightly in the empty chamber Blinding tears will flow, Sleep my angel, sweetest dear one, Lullaby, By-low!
Thy return I'll wait lamenting As the days go by, Ardent for thee praying,--fearing In the cards to spy. I shall fancy thou wilt suffer, As a stranger grow-- Sleep while yet thou nought regrettest, Lullaby, By-low!
I will send a holy image 'Gainst the foe with thee, To it kneeling, dearest Being, Pray with piety! Think of me in bloody battle, Dearest child of woe, Slumber soft within thy cradle, Lullaby, By-low!
LERMONTOFF.

THE DAGGER
I love thee dagger mine, thou sure defence-- I love the beauty of thy glitter cold, A brooding Georgian whetted thee for war, Forged for revenge thou wert by Khirgez bold.
A lily hand, in parting's silent woe, Gave thee to me in morning's twilight shade; Instead of blood, I saw thee first be-dewed With sorrow's tear-pearls flowing o'er thy blade.
Two dusky eyes so true and pure of soul, Mute in the throe of love's mysterious pain-- Like thine own steel within the fire's glow, Flashed forth to me--then faded dull again.
For a soul-pledge thou wert by love appointed, In my life's night to guide me to my end; Stedfast and true my heart shall be forever, Like thee, like thee, my steely hearted friend!
LERMONTOFF.

DON'T GIVE ME THE WINE!
Don't give me the wine! I am drunk of my love, With the force of my passion for you! Don't give me the wine! Or my tongue will betray All the love no one dreamed hitherto; For wine will reveal all I hid in my breast, All the bitter hot tears that were mine, My thirst, without hope, for a future so blest-- I am drunk of my love,--don't give me the wine!
You promise me roses now, if I will drink But one drop of the wine;--if you please Give only one breath from the rose of your lips! And death's cup I will drain to the lees. All passions are raging at once in my blood, Know my frenzy! Love's madness is mine. You seem for my suffering only to wish-- I am drunk of my love! Don't give me the wine!
From the Georgian of Prince Tschawtschawadze.

THE DELIBASH
With the hostile camp in skirmish Our men once were changing shot, Pranced the Delibash his charger 'Fore our ranks of Cossacks hot.
Trifle not with free-born Cossacks! Nor too o'er foolhardy be! Thy mad mood thou wilt atone for-- On his pike he'll skewer thee!
'Ware friend Cossack! Or at full bound, Off thy head, at lightning speed With his scimitar he'll sever From thy trunk! He will indeed!
What confusion! What a roaring! Halt! thou devil's pack, have care! On the pike is lanced the horseman-- Headless stands the Cossack there!
PUSHKIN.
Delibash is the Turkish synonym for Hotspur.

TO THE DON
Through the Steppes, see there he glances! Silent flood glad hailed by me,-- Thy far distant sons do proffer Through me, greeting fond to thee!
Every stream knows thee as brother, Don, thou river boasted wide! The Araxes and Euphrates Send thee greeting as they glide.
Fresh and strengthened for pursuing, Scenting home within thy gleam-- Drink again the Don'ish horses, Flowing boundary, of thy stream!
Faithful Don! There also greet thee Thy true