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Title: The Cossack
Author: George Borrow [
More Titles by Borrow]
An ancient Ballad.
From the Malo-Russian.
O'er the field the snow is flying,
There a wounded Cossack's lying;
On a bush his head he's leaning,
And his eyes with grass is screening,
Meadow-grass so greenly shiny,
And with cloth the make of China;
Croaks the raven hoarsely o'er him,
Neighs his courser sad before him:
"Either, master, give me pay,
Or dismiss me on my way."
"Break thy bridle, O my courser,
Down the path amain be speeding,
Through the verdant forest leading;
Drink of two lakes on thy way,
Eat of mowings two the hay;
Rush the castle-portal under,
With thy hoof against it thunder,
Out shall come a Dame that moaneth,
Whom thy lord for mother owneth;
I will tell thee, my brave prancer,
When she speaks thee what to answer.
"O thou steed, than lightning faster,
Tell me where's thy youthful master!
Him in fight thou hast forsaken,
Or has cast him down, I reckon."
"Nor in fight I've him forsaken,
Nor have cast him down, I reckon,
The lone field with blood bedewing,
There the damsel Death he's wooing."
[The end]
George Borrow's poem: Cossack
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