360 THE RAINS. 



'Neath the rocks grim waves are sweeping - 



O'er them glides the Turk : 

 Comes the vengeful Tscherkess creeping, 



Whets an hungry dirk. 

 Peace ! thy father, battle-hardened, 



Keeps watch keen and true. 

 Sleep then, darling, sleep securely, 



Bai-oosh-kie-ba iou . 



Know thou, too, that days are nearing, 



Loud with war's alarms. 

 Thou shalt spring to horse unfearing, 



Bearing warrior's arms. 

 I'll weave charms upon thy saddle 



With a silken clue : 

 Sleep, my baby, sleep, my heart's blood, 



Bai-oosh-kie-baiou. 



Cossack to the core I read thee, 



Hero-like thou'lt stand : 

 To the field myself I'll lead thee 



Child ! dost press my hand ? 

 Ah, the bitter tears in secret, 



Tender mothers rue ; 

 Sleep, my angel, stilly, sweetly, 



Bai-oosh-kie-baiou. 



Ah, the bitter grief, the sorrow, 



Comfortless to wait ! 

 Each morn praying for the morrow, 



All night guess thy fate. 

 I shall dream thy days are wasted, 



Pining fond and true 

 Sleep cares all as yet untasted 



Bai-oosh-kie-baiou. 



Round thy neck, my boy, I'll fasten, 



Ere thy path be trod, 

 Relics rare thy life to chasten, 



And to lead to God. 



