Were it not well for us, O brothers, to commence in the ancient strain the sad story of the armament of Ígor,[23] Ígor son of Svyatosláv? And let the song be told according to the accounts of the time, and not according to the cunning of Boyán[24] the Wise, for Boyán the Wise, when he wished to make a song, soared with his thoughts in the tree, ran as a grey wolf over the earth, flew as a steel-grey eagle below the clouds. When he recalled the strife of former time, he let loose ten falcons o’er a flock of swans, and every swan each touched sang first a song: to old Yarosláv,[25] to brave Mstisláv[26] who slew Redédya before the Kasóg army, to fair Román Svyatoslávich.[27] But Boyán, O brothers, did not let loose ten falcons on a flock of swans, but laid his inspired fingers on the living strings, and they themselves sounded the glory to the princes. Let us begin, O brothers, this tale from Vladímir[28] of old to the late Ígor who strengthened his soul by his valour, and sharpened it by the courage of his heart, and having filled himself with a manly spirit, led his valiant army for the land of Russia into the country of the Pólovtses.[29] II Then Ígor looked up to the bright sun, and saw that he had covered in darkness[30] all his warriors. And Ígor spoke to his druzhína: “O brothers and druzhína! It is better to be cut to pieces than to be made a captive! Let us, O brothers, mount our swift horses that we may behold the beautiful Don!” A strong desire filled the Prince’s soul to drink from the great Don, and his eagerness blinded him to the evil omen. “For I wish,” he said, “to break the spear on the border of the Pólovts land together with you, sons of Russia! I want to lay down my head, and drink with my helmet from the Don!” O Boyán, nightingale of ancient time! It were for you to spell this army, soaring like a nightingale over the tree of thought, flying like an eagle below the clouds, stringing together words for the deeds of that time, racing over Troyán’s[31] footsteps over fields to the mountains. You ought to have sung a song to Ígor, his grandson: “Not a storm has driven the falcons over the broad fields: flocks of crows hasten to the great Don.”... Or you might have sung thus, inspired Boyán, grandson of Velés[32]: