Historical Songs.
The historical songs are composed in the same manner as the epic songs, of which they are an organic continuation. The oldest historical songs treat of the Tartar invasion. A large number are centred about Iván the Terrible, and those that describe Yermák’s exploits and conquests in Siberia are probably the most interesting of that period. Some of those referring to the time of the Borís Godunóv have been given on pp. 130-4, having been collected by Richard James, the English divine. There are also songs dealing with Sténka Rázin, the robber, who was executed in 1671, and Peter the Great, of which that on the taking of Ázov in 1696 is given below.
There are few collections of these songs in English: W. R. Morfill’s Slavonic Literature and Talvi’s Historical View are the only ones that give extracts of any consequence. Accounts of these songs may be found in most of the Histories of Russian Literature mentioned in the Preface.
YERMÁK
On the glorious steppes of Sarátov,
Below the city of Sarátov,
And above the city of Kamýshin,
The Cossacks, the free people, assembled;
They collected, the brothers, in a ring;
The Cossacks of the Don, the Grebén, and the Yaík,
Their Hetman was Yermák, the son of Timoféy;
Their captain was Asbáshka, the son of Lavrénti.
They planned a little plan.
“The summer, the warm summer is going,
And the cold winter approaches, my brothers.
Where, brothers, shall we spend the winter?
If we go to the Yaík, it is a terrible passage;
If we go to the Vólga, we shall be considered robbers;
If we go to the city of Kazán, there is the Tsar—
The Tsar Iván Vasílevich, the Terrible.
There he has great forces.”
“There, Yermák, thou wilt be hanged,
And we Cossacks shall be captured
And shut up in strong prisons.”
Yermák, the son of Timoféy, takes up his speech:—
“Pay attention, brothers, pay attention,
And listen to me—Yermák!
Let us spend the winter in Astrakhán;
And when the fair Spring reveals herself,
Then, brothers, let us go on a foray;
Let us earn our wine before the terrible Tsar!”
“Ha, brothers, my brave Hetmans!
Make for yourselves boats,
Make the rowlocks of fir,
Make the oars of pine!
By the help of God we will go, brothers;
Let us pass the steep mountains,
Let us reach the infidel kingdom,
Let us conquer the Siberian kingdom,—
That will please our Tsar, our master.
I will myself go to the White Tsar,
I shall put on a sable cloak,
I shall make my submission to the White Tsar.”
“Oh! thou art our hope, orthodox Tsar;
Do not order me to be executed, but bid me say my say,
Since I am Yermák, the son of Timoféy!
I am the robber Hetman of the Don;
’Twas I went over the blue sea,
Over the blue sea, the Caspian;
And I it was who destroyed the ships;
And now, our hope, our orthodox Tsar,
I bring you my traitorous head,
And with it I bring the empire of Siberia.”
And the orthodox Tsar spoke;
He spoke—the terrible Iván Vasílevich:
“Ha! thou art Yermák, the son of Timoféy,
Thou art the Hetman of the warriors of the Don.
I pardon you and your band,
I pardon you for your trusty service,
And I give you the glorious gentle Don as an inheritance.”
—From W. R. Morfill’s Slavonic Literature.
THE BOYÁR’S EXECUTION
“Thou, my head, alas! my head,
Long hast served me, and well, my head;
Full three-and-thirty summers long;
Ever astride of my gallant steed,
Never my foot from its stirrup drawn.
But alas! thou hast gained, my head,
Nothing of joy or other good;
Nothing of honours or even thanks.”
Yonder along the Butcher’s street,
Out to the field through the Butcher’s gate,
They are leading a prince and peer.
Priests and deacons are walking before,
In their hands a great book open;
Then there follows a soldier troop,
With their drawn sabres flashing bright.
At his right the headsman goes,
Holds in his hand the keen-edged sword;
At his left goes his sister dear,
And she weeps as the torrent pours,
And she sobs as the fountains gush.
Comforting speaks her brother to her:
“Weep not, weep not, my sister dear!
Weep not away thy eyes so clear,
Dim not, O dim not thy face so fair,
Make not heavy thy joyous heart!
Say, for what is it thou weepest so?
Is ’t for my goods, my inheritance?
Is ’t for my lands, so rich and wide?
Is ’t for my silver, or is ’t for my gold,
Or dost thou weep for my life alone?”
“Ah, thou, my light, my brother dear!
Not for thy goods or inheritance,
Not for thy lands, so rich and wide,
Is ’t that my eyes are weeping so;
Not for thy silver and not for thy gold,
’Tis for thy life I am weeping so.”
“Ah, thou, my light, my sister sweet!
Thou mayest weep, but it won’t avail;
Thou mayest beg, but ’tis all in vain;
Pray to the Tsar, but he will not yield.
Merciful truly was God to me,
Truly gracious to me the Tsar,
So he commanded my traitor head
Off should be hewn from my shoulders strong.”
Now the scaffold the prince ascends,
Calmly mounts to the place of death;
Prays to his Great Redeemer there,
Humbly salutes the crowd around:
“Farewell, world, and thou people of God!
Pray for my sins that burden me sore!”
Scarce had the people ventured then
On him to look, when his traitor head
Off was hewn from his shoulders strong.
—From Talvi’s Historical View.
THE STORMING OF ÁZOV
The poor soldiers have no rest,
Neither night nor day!
Late at evening the word was given
To the soldiers gay;
All night long their weapons cleaning,
Were the soldiers good;
Ready in the morning dawn,
All in ranks they stood.
Not a golden trumpet is it,
That now sounds so clear;
Nor the silver flute’s tone is it,
That thou now dost hear.
’Tis the great White Tsar who speaketh,
’Tis our father dear.
“Come, my princes, my boyárs,
Nobles, great and small!
Now consider and invent
Good advice, ye all,
How the soonest, how the quickest,
Fort Ázov may fall!”
The boyárs, they stood in silence,—
And our father dear,
He again began to speak,
In his eye a tear:
“Come, my children, good dragoons,
And my soldiers all,
Now consider and invent
Brave advice, ye all,
How the soonest, how the quickest,
Fort Ázov may fall!”
Like a humming swarm of bees,
So the soldiers spake,
With one voice at once they spake:
“Father dear, great Tsar!
Fall it must! and all our lives
Thereon we gladly stake.”
Set already was the moon,
Nearly past the night;
To the storming on they marched,
With the morning light;
To the fort with bulwarked towers
And walls so strong and white.
Not great rocks they were, which rolled
From the mountains steep;
From the high, high walls there rolled
Foes into the deep.
No white snow shines on the fields,
All so white and bright;
But the corpses of our foes
Shine so bright and white.
Not upswollen by heavy rains
Left the sea its bed;
No! In rills and rivers streams
Turkish blood so red!
—From Talvi’s Historical View.