(Cossack Song)

A LONG the hills lies the snow,
But the streams they melt and flow;
By the road the poppies blow —
Poppies? Nay, scarlet though they glow,
These are no flowers — the young recruits!
They are the young recruits!

To Krym, to Krym they ride,
The soldiers, side by side —
And over the country wide
Sounds the beat of the horse's stride.

One calls to her soldier son:
" Return, O careless one!
Of scrubbing wilt have none?
Let me wash thy head — then run!"

" Nay, mother, wash thine own,
Or make my sister groan.
Leave thou thy son alone!
Too swift the time has flown.

" My head the fine spring rain
Will soon wash clean again,
And stout thorns will be fain
To comb what rough has lain.

" The sun will make it dry,
Wind-parted it will lie —
So, mother mine, good-bye!"

*****

He could not hear her cry