O how him I carest
In the night still and fine;
O how then we did jest
At that grey head of thine.




THE COSSACK.


An ancient Ballad.
From the Malo-Russian.

O'er the field the snow is flying,
There a wounded Cossack's lying;
On a bush his head he's leaning,
And his eyes with grass is screening,
Meadow-grass so greenly shiny,
And with cloth the make of China;
Croaks the raven hoarsely o'er him,
Neighs his courser sad before him:
"Either, master, give me pay,
Or dismiss me on my way."
"Break thy bridle, O my courser,
Down the path amain be speeding,
Through the verdant forest leading;
Drink of two lakes on thy way,
Eat of mowings two the hay;
Rush the castle-portal under,