If thou lovest me, Sweetheart,
Let me go to the cherry orchard—
No ill shall befall thee—I will but pluck the povna rozha.[[52]]
To-morrow I go to the quiet dunai[[53]] to wash the clothes; then will I throw the blossom on the water.
Float, float, my rozha, as high as the banks of the river are high! Float, my rozha, to my mother! When she comes to the river to draw water she will know that the flower was borne to her from her daughter’s hand.
The Mother—
Thy rozha has withered on the stream; wast thou in like ill case for these three years?
The Daughter—
I was not sick, my mother, not a year, not an hour.... You chose for me a bad husband.
Did I not carry water for you? Why did you not beg of God to give me a good husband?