(Sixteenth Century)
Cossacks whistled! They were marching,
Marching far away at midnight....
Dark-brown eyes of Marusenka
They will soon be blind from weeping.
“Weep not, weep not, Marusenka,
Be not sad—rise from thy sorrow!
Pray the good God for thy dearest.”
Rose the moon in windless silence—
To the Cossack spake his mother,