Moscow! Let the Tzar take thee!”
“But the Tzar likes me so well,
With him I’ve been asked to dwell!”
“Ah, my son, come home instead.
Let me, dear one, wash thy head.”
“Nay, my mother, nay. With rain
Washing it I’ll not complain.
“Winds will dry my dripping hair;
Teren-bush[[26]] will comb it fair.”
All the deebrova[[27]] is murmuring, murmuring—