If behind the thick bush and green pine we are going,
Even Chorts[[42]] could not find us hid there.
As the heaven for birds, so for us are the hollows,
The caves in Carpathian crests.
We sleep till the stars, till our own shadow follows,
And then we creep out of our nests.
Tobacco we bring from far Hungary’s borders
(Fleet horsemen their chase may give o’er),
The Jew merchant clothing shall give at our orders,
Or else he’ll be nailed to his door.