The Young Recruits
(Cossack Song)
ALONG the hills lies the snow,
But the streams they melt and flow;
By the road the poppies blow–
Poppies? Nay, scarlet though they glow,
These are no flowers–the young recruits!
They are the young recruits!
To Krym, to Krym they ride,
The soldiers, side by side–
And over the country wide
Sounds the beat of the horse’s stride.
One calls to her soldier son:
‘Return, O careless one!
Of scrubbing wilt have none?
Let me wash thy head–then run!’
‘Nay, mother, wash thine own,
Or make my sister groan.
Leave thou thy son alone!
Too swift the time has flown.
’My head the fine spring rain
Will soon wash clean again,
And stout thorns will be fain
To comb what rough has lain.
‘The sun will make it dry,
Wind-parted it will lie–
So, mother mine, good-bye!’
. . . . .
He could not hear her cry.
