A knife, whose edge well sharpened is;
Two drums are at their feet, I wis,
And close beside their lances rest:
They both are sorcerers of Siberian race,
And thus the meaning of their words I trace.
THE OLD MAN
“Roar on, old Irtýsh, let our cry
Along thy stream re-echoing fly;
The gods have chastening sent in ire
And poured on us misfortunes dire.”