An Old Folk Song

Grass rustling in the breeze,
And on the hill a soldier lying.
His horse stands by the dying,
Earth to its very knees.

“Nay, faithful one, stay not
To see if I grow stronger,
Tarry thou now no longer
But see thou art not caught.

“The steppes wait for thy feet,
Then swiftly homeward hie thee;
Let them not come anigh thee,
Harvesters in the wheat.

“Those raking would betray.
So, shod with silence going,
Thou shalt pass these unknowing
Upon thy homeward way.

“Haste through the village street.
Thou bearest naught of gladness.
Like orphan in his sadness
Neigh to the folk who greet.

“And at my mother’s gates
The while bars fall asunder,
My mother comes in wonder
And for thy words she waits.

“‘Bay horse, where is my son?
By thee lies he then drowned there?
Trampled upon the ground there?
Bay horse, what hast thou done?’

“‘Thy son was ever brave,
But cease now from thy weeping,
O’er earth and water leaping
Thy son I tried to save.

“‘I would have saved his life....
For this, thy son has tarried,
A Princess has he married—
The green turf ta’en to wife!’”