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.
VIII
To her little brother the Duchess cried:
“Brother, I pray thee, saddle thy horse!
Haste to the fields that stretch so wide,