III
In the orchard, in the cherry orchard
We passed but now, young Wasyl stood.
He raised his cap in a lightsome mood.
He raised it and listened; he thought he heard
Song of a bird, song of a bird—
Sweet, sweet song of Zuzula[[6]] winging.
But see! It was maids weaving wreaths and singing.
IV
THE COMING OF MEESCHANI ON SUNDAY TO THE WEDDING
(The Meeschani or Master Merchants of old held themselves in high esteem, looking down upon the peasants)
Let us drive—we will drive across the fields;
Drive uphill and down the dales,
Across the sands, across the stones.
They will hear us coming in the vales;
The sands shall murmur, the stones shall prattle,
As ’neath our horses’ feet they rattle;
We will be talked of everywhere.
Ah, how the villagers will stare:
“See now, Meeschani driving there!”
V
CEREMONY OF THE WREATH-WEAVING
The Kalina[[7]] grows in a little valley;
It has blossomed with a white, white flower.
The bridesmaids went to pluck a bough
But empty-handed come they now.
Its plucking lay not in their power.
But there went Marusenka,
There the little Duchess went.
The Cranberry her blossoms lent.
Home came Marusenka to the bright Room of Welcome.
Home to the pretty maidens then came she.
Before her little face she set the flowers,
And she looked at them long and earnestly.
Then of her father asked Marusenka:
“Like this Kalinonka shall I be?”
“As long as thou stayest by my hearth-side,
Child, thou’lt be like that Cranberry.
“But when thou goest upon thy journey
Thy beauty, alas, will fall from thee.
O youthful one, from thy braids so golden
Thy beauty swiftly away shall flee!”
VI
THE WREATH
Wreath, my wreath
Of Barwēnok,[[8]] Kryschati![[9]]
I have woven you, just you alone.
I have not worn you out with wearing;
Saturday afternoon I wore you,
On Sunday all the dear day long,
On Monday just one little hour ...
I would have you painted, that I might keep you
To dance beneath but one night more;
I would have you gilded, that so enwreathèd
I might walk as in days of yore.
VII
BAKING THE KOROVAI[[10]]
My Korovai, so heaven-sweet!
Moulded with water from seven wells;
Made out of seven stacks of wheat.
And now our oven with golden shoulders,
Our big oven with silver wings
The festal loaf shall bake for us,
The Korovai shall make for us.