I
Were it not well for us, O brothers, to commence in the ancient strain the sad story of the armament of Ígor,[23] Ígor son of Svyatosláv? And let the song be told according to the accounts of the time, and not according to the cunning of Boyán[24] the Wise, for Boyán the Wise, when he wished to make a song, soared with his thoughts in the tree, ran as a grey wolf over the earth, flew as a steel-grey eagle below the clouds. When he recalled the strife of former time, he let loose ten falcons o’er a flock of swans, and every swan each touched sang first a song: to old Yarosláv,[25] to brave Mstisláv[26] who slew Redédya before the Kasóg army, to fair Román Svyatoslávich.[27] But Boyán, O brothers, did not let loose ten falcons on a flock of swans, but laid his inspired fingers on the living strings, and they themselves sounded the glory to the princes.
Let us begin, O brothers, this tale from Vladímir[28] of old to the late Ígor who strengthened his soul by his valour, and sharpened it by the courage of his heart, and having filled himself with a manly spirit, led his valiant army for the land of Russia into the country of the Pólovtses.[29]
II
Then Ígor looked up to the bright sun, and saw that he had covered in darkness[30] all his warriors. And Ígor spoke to his druzhína: “O brothers and druzhína! It is better to be cut to pieces than to be made a captive! Let us, O brothers, mount our swift horses that we may behold the beautiful Don!”
A strong desire filled the Prince’s soul to drink from the great Don, and his eagerness blinded him to the evil omen.
“For I wish,” he said, “to break the spear on the border of the Pólovts land together with you, sons of Russia! I want to lay down my head, and drink with my helmet from the Don!”
O Boyán, nightingale of ancient time! It were for you to spell this army, soaring like a nightingale over the tree of thought, flying like an eagle below the clouds, stringing together words for the deeds of that time, racing over Troyán’s[31] footsteps over fields to the mountains. You ought to have sung a song to Ígor, his grandson: “Not a storm has driven the falcons over the broad fields: flocks of crows hasten to the great Don.”... Or you might have sung thus, inspired Boyán, grandson of Velés[32]:
“The horses neigh beyond the Sulá[33]; glory resounds in Kíev; trumpets blare in Nóvgorod[34]; the standards are at Putívl[35]; Ígor waits for his beloved brother Vsévolod. And Vsévolod, the Grim Aurochs, spoke to him: “My only brother, my only light, glorious Ígor, we are both sons of Svyatosláv! Saddle, O brother, your swift steeds, for mine are ready for you, having been saddled in advance at Kursk! My Kurians are tried warriors, nurtured by the sound of trumpets, rocked in helmets, fed at the point of the spear. The roads are known to them; the ravines are familiar to them; their bows are drawn; their quivers open, their swords—whetted. They race over the fields like grey wolves, seeking honour for themselves, and glory for their Prince.”