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THE KOBZAR OF THE UKRAINE
109
To the Makers of Sentimental
Idyls.
DID you but know, fine dandy,
The people's life of misery
You would not use such pretty phrases,
Nor give to God such empty praises.
At our tears you're laughing,
And our sorrows chaffing,
Slave's cot in a shady spot—
You call it heaven! Rot!
I lived once in such a shanty,
Of childhood's tears I shed a plenty,
In bitter sorrows we were wise,
Home that you call paradise.
No paradise I call thee,
Little cottage in the wood,
With the water pure beside thee
Close by the village rude!
There my mother bore me,
Singing she tended me;
My child's heart drank in her pain.
Cottage in the shady dell,
Heaven outside, inside hell:
