Текст песни Тарас Шевченко - Наймичка

PROLOGUE
Sunday morning early
The field was covered with fog;
In the fog, on the grave,
Like a poplar, she leaned forward
The young woman is young.
Something clings to the womb
But he talks to the fog:
"Oh fog, fog -
My patched talent!
Why don't you hide me
Here in the middle of the field?
Why don't you crush me,
Can't you hit the ground?
Why do I have a bad luck,
Why not save age?
No, don't give up, fog!
Hide only in the field,
That nobody knew, didn't see
My misfortune! ..
I'm not alone, I have
Both father and mother ...
I have ... a fog,
Fog, brother! ..
My child! my son
Unbaptized son!
I will not baptize you
At a bad hour.
Strangers will baptize,
I will not know
As they call ... My child!
I was rich ...
Don't bark at me; I will pray
From the sky
I will pay my share with tears
And I will send to you. "
Went across the field, sobbing,
She was hiding in the fog
But through tears quietly
She sang about a widow,
As a widow in the Danube
She buried her sons:
“Oh, a grave in the field;
The widow went there,
I went for a walk there,
Drones-potion sought.
Tinder-potion not found,
And she brought two sons,
She wore a Chinese girl
And on the Danube carried:
“Quiet, quiet Danube!
Entertain my children.
You, yellow sand,
Feed my children;
And buy, and sing,
And cover yourself! ”

AND
He had a grandfather and grandmother.
From time immemorial, in the grove above the pond,
The two of them lived on a farm.
As two children,
Both are everywhere.
As a child, the two lambs grazed.
And then got married,
Cattle were waiting,
They bought a hamlet, a mill and a mill,
The garden in the grove was parted
And a considerable apiary -
They got everything.
And the kids in their bigma,
And death with a scythe over his shoulders.
Who will greet their old age,
For a child?
Who will cry, bury?
Who will remember the soul?
Who lives well honestly
In a good hour
And remember, thanking,
How is your child? ..
It is difficult to feed children
In a roofless house,
And even worse to grow old
In the white chambers,
Grow old, die,
Good to leave
Strangers, strangers' children
To laugh, to waste!

II
Both grandparents on Sunday
The two of them were sitting on the porch
Pretty, in white shirts.
The sun was shining in the heavens
No clouds, but quiet,
And love, like in paradise.
Disaster is hidden in the heart,
Like a beast in a dark grove.
In such a paradise, what would, I see,
Old to miss?
Or a long-standing disaster
Woke up in the house?
Did yesterday's, crushed Move Again,
Or just locked up -
And did heaven ignite?
I do not know what and after what
The old men are sad. Maybe already
This is going to God,
But who is on a long journey
Will they harness horses well?
"And who will bury us, Nastya,
How will we die? ”
"I do not know!
I was thinking all this,
But it became sad:
Lonely old ...
Who cared
Is this good? .. »
“Just wait!
Do you hear something is crying
Outside the gate ... like a child!
Let's just run! .. See?
I guessed that something would happen! ”
And together they jumped
And to the gate ... They run -
They stopped in silence.
Before the climb
Swaddled baby -
And not tight, and new
Covered with a shrine;
Because the mother wrapped -
And in the summer she hid
The last pile! ..
They watched, prayed
My old ones. And heartily
As if begging:
The arms stretched out
And reaches out to them
Tiny ... and fell silent,
As if not crying,
Only phika.
"And what, Nastya?
I told her! You see?
Here is the talent, here is the fate,
And not alone!
Just take it and wrap it ...
Oh, what a new year!
Take it to the house, and I'll ride
I'll run after the godparents
In Gorodishche ... »
Strange somehow
It's happening between us!
One son curses,
Kicks out of the house,
The second candle, the heart,
Then he earns
And, sobbing, it is
Before the images -
No children! .. Strange somehow
It's happening between us!

III
As much as three bucks for joy
The godparents were gathered
And in the evening they were baptized
And they named Mark.
Marco is growing. My old ones
Don't know where the kids are,
Where to plant, where to put
And what to do with it.
A year passes. Roste Marco -
And a dairy cow
In luxury