Ballads, Serbian; Folk songs, Serbian; Serbian poetry -- History and criticism; Serbian poetry -- Translations into English
NINE fair sons possess’d a happy mother;
And the tenth, the loveliest and the latest,
Was Jelitza,—a beloved daughter.
They had grown together up to manhood,
Till the sons were ripe for bridal altars,
And the maid was ready for betrothing.
Many a lover ask’d the maid in marriage;
First a _Ban_; {45} a chieftain was the other;
And the third, a neighbour from her village.
So her mother for the neighbour pleaded;
For the far-off-dwelling ban her brothers.
Thus they urged it to their lovely sister:
“Go, we pray thee, our beloved sister,
With the ban across the distant waters:
Go! thy brothers oft will hasten to thee;
Every month of every year will seek thee;
Every week of every month will seek thee.”
So the maiden listened to her brothers,
With the ban she cross’d the distant waters:
But, behold! O melancholy marvel!
God sent down the plague, and all the brothers,
All the nine, were swept away, and lonely
Stood their miserable sonless mother.
Three long years had pass’d away unheeded;
Often had Jelitza sighed in silence:
“Heaven of mercy! ’tis indeed a marvel!
Have I sinn’d against them?—that my brothers,
Spite of all their vows, come never near me.”
Then did her stepsisters scorn and jeer her:
“Cast away! thy brothers must despise thee!
Never have they come to greet their sister.”
Bitter was the sorrow of Jelitza,
Bitter from the morning to the evening,
Till the God of heaven took pity on her,
And he summon’d two celestial angels:
“Hasten down to earth,” he said, “my angels!
To the white grave, where Jovān is sleeping,—
Young Jovan, the maiden’s youngest brother.
Breathe your spirit into him; and fashion
From the white grave-stone a steed to bear him:
From the mouldering earth his food prepare him:
Let him take his grave-shroud for a present!
Then equip and send him to his sister.”
Swiftly hasten’d God’s celestial angels
To the white grave where Jovan was sleeping.
From the white grave-stone a steed they fashion’d;
Into his dead corpse they breathed their spirit;
From the ready earth the bread they moulded;
For a present his grave-shroud they folded;
And equipp’d, and bade him seek his sister.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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