Слово о плъку Игоревѣ
The Lay of Igor's Campaign

[Note: I have transliterated proper names as they were written in the original text rather than modernizing them. Thus, Novgorod is written as Nověgrad, Chersonesus as Korsun’, etc. The only exception is word-final back yers (ъ), which I have deleted, as they were probably silent by the time the Lay was composed, and they can be inferred whenever a word ends in a consonant. In the original text the same name was sometimes spelled in different ways; I made these consistent in the translation.]

Old East Slavic English
Слово о плъку Игоревѣ,
Игоря сына Святъславля, внука Ольгова

Не лѣпо ли ны бяшетъ, братие,
начяти старыми словесы
трудныхъ повѣстий о пълку Игоревѣ,
Игоря Святъславлича?
Начати же ся тъй пѣсни
по былинамь сего времени,
а не по замышлению Бояню.
Боянъ бо вѣщий,
аще кому хотяше пѣснь творити,
то растѣкашется мыслию по древу,
сѣрымъ вълкомъ по земли,
шизымъ орломъ подъ облакы.
Помняшеть бо, рече,
първыхъ временъ усобицѣ.
Тогда пущашеть і̃ соколовь на стадо лебедѣй:
которыи дотечаше,
та преди пѣснь пояше
старому Ярославу,
храброму Мстиславу,
иже зарѣза Редедю предъ пълкы касожьскыми,
красному Романови Святъславличю.
Боянъ же, братие, не і̃ соколовь
на стадо лебедѣй пущаше,
нъ своя вѣщиа пръсты
на живая струны въскладаше;
они же сами княземъ славу рокотаху.

Почнемъ же, братие, повѣсть сию
отъ стараго Владимера до нынѣшняго Игоря,
иже истягну умь крѣпостию своею
и поостри сердца своего мужествомъ;
наплънився ратнаго духа,
наведе своя храбрыя плъкы
на землю Половѣцькую
за землю Руськую.

Тогда Игорь възрѣ
на свѣтлое солнце
и видѣ отъ него тьмою
вся своя воя прикрыты.
И рече Игорь
къ дружинѣ своей:
„Братие
и дружино!
Луце жъ бы потяту быти,
неже полонену быти;
а всядемъ, братие,
на свои бръзыя комони,
да позримъ
синего Дону“.
Спалъ князю умь
похоти
и жалость ему знамение заступи
искусити Дону великаго.
„Хощу бо, — рече, — копие приломити
конець поля Половецкаго,
съ вами, русици, хощу главу свою приложити,
а любо испити шеломомь Дону“.

О Бояне, соловию стараго времени!
Абы ты сиа плъкы ущекоталъ,
скача, славию, по мыслену древу,
летая умомъ подъ облакы,
свивая славы оба полы сего времени,
рища въ тропу Трояню
чресъ поля на горы,
Пѣти было пѣснь Игореви,
того внуку:
„Не буря соколы занесе
чрезъ поля широкая, —
галици стады бѣжать
къ Дону великому“.
Чи ли въспѣти было,
вѣщей Бояне,
Велесовь внуче:
„Комони ржуть за Сулою, —
звенить слава въ Кыевѣ;
трубы трубять въ Новѣградѣ, —
стоять стязи въ Путивлѣ!“.

Игорь ждетъ мила брата Всеволода.
И рече ему буй туръ Всеволодъ:
„Одинъ братъ,
одинъ свѣтъ свѣтлый —
ты, Игорю!
оба есвѣ Святъславличя!
Сѣдлай, брате,
свои бръзыи комони,
а мои ти готови,
осѣдлани у Курьска напереди.
А мои ти куряни свѣдоми къмети:
подъ трубами повити,
подъ шеломы възлѣлѣяни,
конець копия въскръмлени,
пути имь вѣдоми,
ругы имъ знаеми,
луци у нихъ напряжени,
тули отворени,
сабли изъострени;
сами скачють, акы сѣрыи влъци въ полѣ,
ищучи себе чти, а князю славѣ“.

Тогда въступи Игорь князь въ златъ стремень,
и поѣха по чистому полю.
Солнце ему тъмою путь заступаше;
нощь стонущи ему грозою птичь убуди;
свистъ звѣринъ въста;
збися дивъ,
кличетъ връху древа:
велитъ послушати — земли незнаемѣ,
Влъзѣ,
и Поморию,
и Посулию,
и Сурожу,
и Корсуню,
и тебѣ, Тьмутораканьскый блъванъ!
А половци неготовами дорогами
побѣгоша къ Дону великому:
крычатъ тѣлѣгы полунощы,
рци, лебеди роспущени.
Игорь къ Дону вои ведетъ!
Уже бо бѣды его пасетъ птиць
по дубию;
влъци грозу въсрожатъ
по яругамъ;
орли клектомъ на кости звѣри зовутъ;
лисици брешутъ на чръленыя щиты.
О Руская земле! Уже за шеломянемъ еси!

Длъго ночь мрькнетъ.
Заря свѣтъ запала.
Мъгла поля покрыла.
Щекотъ славий успе;
говоръ галичь убуди.
Русичи великая поля чрьлеными щиты прегородиша,
ищучи себѣ чти, а князю славы.

Съ зарания въ пятокъ
потопташа поганыя плъкы половецкыя,
и рассушясь стрѣлами по полю,
помчаша красныя дѣвкы половецкыя,
а съ ними злато,
и паволокы,
и драгыя оксамиты.
Орьтъмами,
и япончицами,
и кожухы
начашя мосты мостити по болотомъ
и грязивымъ мѣстомъ,
и всякыми узорочьи половѣцкыми.
Чрьленъ стягъ,
бѣла хорюговь,
чрьлена чолка,
сребрено стружие —
храброму Святъславличю!

Дремлетъ въ полѣ Ольгово хороброе гнѣздо.
Далече залетѣло!
Не было оно обидѣ порождено
ни соколу,
ни кречету,
ни тебѣ, чръный воронъ,
поганый половчине!
Гзакъ бежитъ сѣрымъ влъкомъ,
Кончакъ ему слѣдъ править къ Дону великому.

Другаго дни велми рано
кровавыя зори свѣтъ повѣдаютъ;
чръныя тучя съ моря идутъ,
хотятъ прикрыти солнца,
а въ нихъ трепещуть синии млънии.
Быти грому великому!
Итти дождю стрѣлами съ Дону великаго!
Ту ся копиемъ приламати,
ту ся саблямъ потручяти
о шеломы половецкыя,
на рѣцѣ на Каялѣ,
у Дону великаго!
О Руская землѣ! Уже за шеломянемъ еси!

Се вѣтри, Стрибожи внуци, вѣютъ съ моря стрѣлами
на храбрыя плъкы Игоревы.
Земля тутнетъ,
рѣкы мутно текуть,
пороси поля прикрываютъ,
стязи глаголютъ:
половци идуть отъ Дона,
и отъ моря,
и отъ всѣхъ странъ Рускыя плъкы оступиша.
Дѣти бѣсови кликомъ поля прегородиша,
а храбрии Русици преградиша чрълеными щиты.

Яръ туре Всеволодѣ!
стоиши на борони,
прыщеши на вои стрѣлами,
гремлеши о шеломы мечи харалужными!
Камо, туръ, поскочяше,
своимъ златымъ шеломомъ посвѣчивая,
тамо лежатъ поганыя головы половецкыя.
Поскепаны саблями калеными шеломы оварьскыя
отъ тебе, яръ туре Всеволоде!
Кая раны дорога, братие, забывъ чти
и живота,
и града Чрънигова отня злата стола,
и своя милыя хоти, красныя Глѣбовны,
свычая и обычая?

Были вѣчи Трояни,
минула лѣта Ярославля;
были плъци Олговы,
Ольга Святьславличя.
Тъй бо Олегъ мечемъ крамолу коваше
и стрѣлы по земли сѣяше.
Ступаетъ въ златъ стремень въ градѣ Тьмутороканѣ,
той же звонъ слыша давный великый Ярославь,
а сынъ Всеволожь Владимиръ
по вся утра уши закладаше въ Черниговѣ.
Бориса же Вячеславлича слава на судъ приведе
и на Канину зелену паполому постла
за обиду Олгову,
храбра и млада князя.
Съ тоя же Каялы Святоплъкь повелѣ яти отца своего
междю угорьскими иноходьци
ко святѣй Софии къ Киеву.
Тогда, при Олзѣ Гориславличи
сѣяшется и растяшеть усобицами,
погибашеть жизнь Даждьбожа внука;
въ княжихъ крамолахъ вѣци человѣкомь скратишась.
Тогда по Руской земли рѣтко ратаевѣ кикахуть,
нъ часто врани граяхуть,
трупиа себѣ дѣляче,
а галици свою рѣчь говоряхуть,
хотять полетѣти на уедие.

То было въ ты рати и въ ты плъкы,
а сицей рати не слышано!
Съ зараниа до вечера,
съ вечера до свѣта
летятъ стрѣлы каленыя,
гримлютъ сабли о шеломы,
трещатъ копиа харалужныя
въ полѣ незнаемѣ,
среди земли Половецкыи.
Чръна земля подъ копыты костьми была посѣяна,
а кровию польяна:
тугою взыдоша по Руской земли.

Что ми шумить,
что ми звенить —
далече рано предъ зорями?
Игорь плъкы заворочаетъ:
жаль бо ему мила брата Всеволода.
Бишася день,
бишася другый;
третьяго дни къ полуднию падоша стязи Игоревы.
Ту ся брата разлучиста на брезѣ быстрой Каялы;
ту кроваваго вина не доста;
ту пиръ докончаша храбрии русичи:
сваты попоиша, а сами полегоша
за землю Рускую.
Ничить трава жалощами,
а древо с тугою къ земли преклонилось.

Уже бо, братие, не веселая година въстала,
уже пустыни силу прикрыла.
Въстала обида въ силахъ Дажьбожа внука,
вступила дѣвою на землю Трояню,
въсплескала лебедиными крылы
на синѣмъ море у Дону
плещучи, упуди жирня времена.
Усобица княземъ на поганыя погыбе,
рекоста бо братъ брату:
„Се мое, а то мое же“.
И начяша князи про малое
„се великое“ млъвити,
а сами на себѣ крамолу ковати.
А погании съ всѣхъ странъ прихождаху съ побѣдами
на землю Рускую.

О, далече зайде соколъ, птиць бья, — къ морю!
А Игорева храбраго плъку не крѣсити!
За нимъ кликну Карна и Жля,
поскочи по Руской земли,
смагу людемъ мычючи въ пламянѣ розѣ.
Жены руския въсплакашась, аркучи:
„Уже намъ своихъ милыхъ ладъ
ни мыслию смыслити,
ни думою сдумати,
ни очима съглядати,
а злата и сребра ни мало того потрепати“.

А въстона бо, братие, Киевъ тугою,
а Черниговъ напастьми.
Тоска разлияся по Руской земли;
печаль жирна тече средь земли Рускыи.
А князи сами на себе крамолу коваху,
а погании сами,
побѣдами нарищуще на Рускую землю,
емляху дань по бѣлѣ отъ двора.

Тии бо два храбрая Святъславлича,
Игорь и Всеволодъ —
уже лжу убудиста которою,
ту бяше успилъ отецъ ихъ —
Святъславь грозный великый киевскый грозою:
бяшеть притрепалъ своими сильными плъкы
и харалужными мечи;
наступи на землю Половецкую,
притопта хлъми и яругы,
взмути рѣкы и озеры
иссуши потокы и болота.
А поганаго Кобяка изъ луку моря
отъ желѣзныхъ великыхъ плъковъ половецкыхъ
ко вихръ, выторже:
и падеся Кобякъ въ градѣ Киевѣ,
въ гридницѣ Святъславли.
Ту нѣмци и венедици,
ту греци и морава
поютъ славу Святъславлю,
кають князя Игоря,
иже погрузи жиръ во днѣ Каялы рѣкы половецкыя,
рускаго злата насыпаша.
Ту Игорь князь высѣдѣ изъ сѣдла злата,
а въ сѣдло кощиево.
Уныша бо градомъ забралы,
а веселие пониче.

А Святъславь мутенъ сонъ видѣ
въ Киевѣ на горахъ.
„Си ночь съ вечера одѣвахуть мя, — рече, —
чръною паполомою
на кроваты тисовѣ;
чръпахуть ми синее вино,
съ трудомъ смѣшено,
сыпахуть ми тъщими тулы поганыхъ тльковинъ
великый женчюгь на лоно
и нѣгуютъ мя.
Уже дьскы безъ кнѣса
в моемъ теремѣ златовръсѣмъ.
Всю нощь съ вечера
бусови врани възграяху;
у Плѣсньска, на болони бѣша дебрь кияня,
и несошася къ синему морю“.

И ркоша бояре князю:
„Уже, княже, туга умь полонила;
се бо два сокола слѣтѣста
съ отня стола злата
поискати града Тьмутороканя,
а любо испити шеломомь Дону.
Уже соколома крильца припѣшали
поганыхъ саблями,
а самаю опуташа
въ путины желѣзны.

Темно бо бѣ въ день:
два солнца помѣркоста,
оба багряная стлъпа погасоста
и съ нима молодая мѣсяца,
Олегъ и Святъславъ,
тъмою ся поволокоста
и въ морѣ погрузиста,
и великое буйство подаста хинови.
На рѣцѣ на Каялѣ тьма свѣтъ покрыла;
по Руской земли прострошася половци,
акы пардуже гнѣздо.
Уже снесеся хула на хвалу;
уже тресну нужда на волю;
уже връжеся дивь на землю.
Се бо готьскыя красныя дѣвы
въспѣша на брезѣ синему морю:
звоня рускымъ златомъ,
поютъ время Бусово,
лелѣютъ месть Шароканю.

А мы уже, дружина, жадни веселия!

Тогда великый Святъславъ
изрони злато слово
с слезами смѣшено
и рече:
„О моя сыновчя, Игорю и Всеволоде!
Рано еста начала Половецкую землю
мечи цвѣлити,
а себѣ славы искати.
Нъ нечестно одолѣсте,
нечестно бо кровь поганую пролиясте.
Ваю храбрая сердца
въ жестоцемъ харалузѣ скована,
а въ буести закалена.
Се ли створисте моей сребреней сѣдинѣ?
А уже не вижду власти
сильнаго,
и богатаго,
и многовоя
брата моего Ярослава,
съ черниговьскими былями,
съ могуты,
и съ татраны,
и съ шельбиры,
и съ топчакы,
и съ ревугы,
и съ ольберы.
Тии бо бес щитовь съ засапожникы
кликомъ плъкы побѣждаютъ,
звонячи въ прадѣднюю славу.
Нъ рекосте: «Мужаимѣся сами:
преднюю славу сами похитимъ,
а заднюю си сами подѣлимъ!»
А чи диво ся, братие, стару помолодити?
Коли соколъ въ мытехъ бываетъ,
высоко птицъ възбиваетъ:
не дастъ гнѣзда своего въ обиду.
Нъ се зло — княже ми непособие:

наниче ся годины обратиша.
Се у Римъ кричатъ подъ саблями половецкыми,
а Володимиръ подъ ранами.
Туга и тоска сыну Глѣбову!“.

Великый княже Всеволоде!
Не мыслию ти прелетѣти издалеча
отня злата стола поблюсти?
Ты бо можеши Волгу веслы раскропити,
а Донъ шеломы выльяти!
Аже бы ты былъ,
то была бы чага по ногатѣ,
а кощей по резанѣ.
Ты бо можеши посуху
живыми шереширы стрѣляти,
удалыми сыны Глѣбовы.

Ты буй Рюриче и Давыде!
Не ваю ли вои
злачеными шеломы по крови плаваша?
Не ваю ли храбрая дружина
рыкаютъ акы тури,
ранены саблями калеными
на полѣ незнаемѣ?
Вступита, господина, въ злата стремень
за обиду сего времени,
за землю Рускую,
за раны Игоревы,
буего Святъславича!

Галичкы Осмомыслѣ Ярославе!
Высоко сѣдиши
на своемъ златокованнѣмъ столѣ,
подперъ горы Угорскыи
своими желѣзными плъки,
заступивъ королеви путь,
затворивъ Дунаю ворота,
меча бремены чрезъ облакы,
суды рядя до Дуная.
Грозы твоя по землямъ текутъ,
отворяеши Киеву врата,
стрѣляеши съ отня злата стола
салътани за землями.
Стрѣляй, господине, Кончака,
поганого кощея,
за землю Рускую,
за раны Игоревы,
буего Святъславича!

А ты, буй Романе, и Мстиславе!
Храбрая мысль носитъ вашъ умъ на дѣло.
Высоко плаваеши на дѣло въ буести,
ко соколъ на вѣтрехъ ширяяся,
хотя птицю въ буйствѣ одолѣти.
Суть бо у ваю желѣзныи паробци
под шеломы латиньскыми.
Тѣми тресну земля,
и многы страны —
Хинова,
Литва,
Ятвязи,
Деремела,
и половци сулици своя повръгоша,
а главы своя подклониша
подъ тыи мечи харалужныи.

Нъ уже, княже Игорю,
утръпѣ солнцю свѣтъ,
а древо не бологомъ листвие срони:
по Рси и по Сули гради подѣлиша.
А Игорева храбраго плъку не крѣсити!
Донъ ти, княже, кличетъ
и зоветь князи на побѣду.
Олговичи, храбрыи князи, доспѣли на брань.

Инъгварь и Всеволодъ
и вси три Мстиславичи,
не худа гнѣзда шестокрилци!
Не побѣдными жребии
собѣ власти расхытисте!
Кое ваши златыи шеломы
и сулицы ляцкыи
и щиты?
Загородите полю ворота
своими острыми стрѣлами
за землю Рускую,
за раны Игоревы,
буего Святъславлича!

Уже бо Сула не течетъ сребреными струями
къ граду Переяславлю,
и Двина болотомъ течетъ
онымъ грознымъ полочаномъ
подъ кликомъ поганыхъ.
Единъ же Изяславъ, сынъ Васильковъ,
позвони своими острыми мечи
о шеломы литовьскыя,
притрепа славу дѣду своему Всеславу,
а самъ подъ чрълеными щиты
на кровавѣ травѣ
притрепанъ литовскыми мечи
и с хотию на кров,
а тъи рекъ:
„Дружину твою, княже,
птиць крилы приодѣ,
а звѣри кровь полизаша“.
Не бысть ту брата Брячяслава,
ни другаго Всеволода:
единъ же изрони жемчюжну душу
изъ храбра тѣла
чресъ злато ожерелие.
Уныли голоси,
пониче веселие,
трубы трубятъ городьцкии.
Ярославли и вси внуце Всеславли!
Уже понизите стязи свои,
вонзите свои мечи вережени.
Уже бо выскочисте изъ дѣдней славѣ.
Вы бо своими крамолами
начясте наводити поганыя
на землю Рускую,
на жизнь Всеславлю.
Которою бо бѣше насилие
отъ земли Половецкыи!

На седьмомъ вѣцѣ Трояни
връже Всеславъ жребий
о дѣвицю себѣ любу.
Тъй клюками подпръ ся о кони
и скочи къ граду Кыеву
и дотчеся стружиемъ
злата стола киевьскаго.
Скочи отъ нихъ лютымъ звѣремъ
въ плъночи изъ Бѣлаграда,
обѣсися синѣ мьглѣ;
утрѣ же вознзи стрикусы, —
отвори врата Новуграду,
разшибе славу Ярославу,
скочи влъкомъ
до Немиги съ Дудутокъ.

На Немизѣ снопы стелютъ головами,
молотятъ чепи харалужными,
на тоцѣ животъ кладутъ,
вѣютъ душу отъ тѣла.
Немизѣ кровави брезѣ
не бологомъ бяхуть посѣяни,
посѣяни костьми рускихъ сыновъ.

Всеславъ князь людемъ судяше,
княземъ грады рядяше,
а самъ въ ночь влъкомъ рыскаше:
изъ Кыева дорискаше до куръ Тмутороканя,
великому Хръсови влъкомъ путь прерыскаше.
Тому въ Полотьскѣ позвониша заутренюю рано
у святыя Софеи въ колоколы,
а онъ въ Кыевѣ звонъ слыша.
Аще и вѣща душа въ дръзѣ тѣлѣ
нъ часто бѣды страдаше.
Тому вѣщей Боянъ
и пръвое припѣвку, смысленый, рече:
„Ни хытру,
ни горазду,
ни птицю горазду
суда божиа не минути“.

О стонати Руской земли,
помянувше пръвую годину
и пръвыхъ князей!
Того стараго Владимира
нельзѣ бѣ пригвоздити къ горамъ киевьскымъ:
сего бо нынѣ сташа стязи Рюриковы,
а друзии — Давидовы,
нъ розно ся имъ хоботы пашутъ.

Копиа поютъ!

На Дунаи Ярославнынъ гласъ ся слышитъ,
зегзицею незнаема рано кычеть:
„Полечю, — рече, — зегзицею по Дунаеви,
омочю бебрянъ рукавъ въ Каялѣ рѣцѣ,
утру князю кровавыя его раны
на жестоцѣмъ его тѣлѣ“.

Ярославна рано плачетъ
въ Путивлѣ на забралѣ, аркучи:
„О вѣтрѣ, вѣтрило!
Чему, господине, насильно вѣеши?
Чему мычеши хиновьскыя стрѣлкы
на своею нетрудною крилцю
на моея лады вои?
Мало ли ти бяшетъ горѣ подъ облакы вѣяти,
лелѣючи корабли на синѣ морѣ?
Чему, господине, мое веселие
по ковылию развѣя?“.

Ярославна рано плачеть
Путивлю городу на заборолѣ, аркучи:
„О Днепре Словутицю!
Ты пробилъ еси каменныя горы
сквозѣ землю Половецкую.
Ты лелѣялъ еси на себѣ Святославли насады
до плъку Кобякова.
Възлелѣй, господине, мою ладу къ мнѣ,
а быхъ не слала къ нему слезъ
на море рано“.

Ярославна рано плачетъ
въ Путивлѣ на забралѣ, аркучи:
„Свѣтлое и тресвѣтлое слънце!
Всѣмъ тепло и красно еси:
чему, господине, простре горячюю свою лучю
на ладѣ вои?
Въ полѣ безводнѣ жаждею имь лучи съпряже,
тугою имъ тули затче?“.

Прысну море полунощи;
идутъ сморци мьглами.
Игореви князю богъ путь кажетъ
изъ земли Половецкой
на землю Рускую,
къ отню злату столу.

Погасоша вечеру зори.
Игорь спитъ,
Игорь бдитъ,
Игорь мыслию поля мѣритъ
отъ великаго Дону до малаго Донца.
Комонь въ полуночи Овлуръ свисну за рѣкою;
велить князю разумѣти:
князю Игорю не быть!
Кликну,
стукну земля,
въшумѣ трава,
вежи ся половецкии подвизашася.
А Игорь князь поскочи
горнастаемъ къ тростию
и бѣлымъ гоголемъ на воду.
Въвръжеся на бръзъ комонь,
и скочи съ него бусымъ влъкомъ.
И потече къ лугу Донца,
и полетѣ соколомъ подъ мьглами,
избивая гуси и лебеди
завтроку,
и обѣду,
и ужинѣ.
Коли Игорь соколомъ полетѣ,
тогда Влуръ влъкомъ потече,
труся собою студеную росу:
претръгоста бо своя бръзая комоня.

Донецъ рече:
„Княже Игорю!
Не мало ти величия,
а Кончаку нелюбия,
а Руской земли веселиа“.

Игорь рече:
„О Донче!
Не мало ти величия,
лелѣявшу князя на влънахъ,
стлавшу ему зелѣну траву
на своихъ сребреныхъ брезѣхъ,
одѣвавшу его теплыми мъглами
подъ сѣнию зелену древу;
стрежаше его гоголемъ на водѣ,
чайцами на струяхъ,
чрьнядьми на ветрѣхъ“.

Не тако ти, рече, рѣка Стугна;
худу струю имѣя,
пожръши чужи ручьи и стругы,
рострена к устью,
уношу князю Ростиславу затвори.
Днѣпрь темнѣ березѣ
плачется мати Ростиславля
по уноши князи Ростиславѣ.
Уныша цвѣты жалобою
и древо с тугою къ земли прѣклонилось.

А не сорокы втроскоташа:
на слѣду Игоревѣ ѣздитъ Гзакъ съ Кончакомъ.
Тогда врани не граахуть,
галици помлъкоша,
сорокы не троскоташа,
полозие ползаша только.
Дятлове тектомъ путь къ рѣцѣ кажутъ,
соловии веселыми пѣсньми
свѣтъ повѣдаютъ.

Млъвитъ Гзакъ Кончакови:
„Аже соколъ къ гнѣзду летитъ, —
соколича рострѣляевѣ
своими злачеными стрѣлами“.

Рече Кончакъ ко Гзѣ:
„Аже соколъ къ гнѣзду летитъ,
а вѣ соколца опутаевѣ
красною дивицею“.

И рече Гзакъ къ Кончакови:
„Аще его опутаевѣ красною дѣвицею,
ни нама будетъ сокольца,
ни нама красны дѣвице,
то почнутъ наю птици бити
въ полѣ Половецкомъ“.

Рекъ Боянъ и Ходына,
Святъславля пѣснотворца
стараго времени Ярославля,
Ольгова коганя хоти:
„Тяжко ти головы кромѣ плечю,
зло ти тѣлу кромѣ головы“, —
Руской земли безъ Игоря.

Солнце свѣтится на небесѣ —
Игорь князь въ Руской земли:
Дѣвици поютъ на Дунаи, —
вьются голоси чрезъ море до Киева.
Игорь ѣдетъ по Боричеву
къ святѣй богородици Пирогощей.
Страны ради, гради весели.

Пѣвше пѣснь старымъ княземъ,
а потомъ молодымъ пѣти:

„Слава Игорю Святъславличю,
буй туру Всеволоду,
Владимиру Игоревичу!

Здрави князи и дружина,
побарая за христьяны
на поганыя плъки!

Княземъ слава а дружинѣ!
Аминь.“
The Lay of the Campaign of Igor’,
Son of Svjatŭslav, Grandson of Oleg

Would it not be fitting for us, brothers,
to begin, as the old lays,
the grievous accounts of the campaign of Igor’,
of Igor’ Svjatŭslavič’?
But rather to begin this song
according to the events of our time,
and not according to the conceptions of Bojan.
For Bojan the wizard,
if he wished to create a song for someone,
soared in thought over the tree,
as a grey wolf over the land,
as a slate eagle beneath the clouds.
For he remembered, he said,
the first times’ feuds.
Then he would let loose ten falcons upon a flock of swans:
whichever one they would reach,
that one would first sing a song
to old Jaroslav,
to brave Mstislav,
who cut down Rededja before the Circassian hosts,
to beautiful Roman Svjatŭslavič’.
But Bojan, brothers, did not let loose ten falcons
upon a flock of swans,
but rather laid his magic fingers
on the living strings;
and they themselves thundered glory to the princes.

But let us begin, brothers, this account
from old Vladimir to present Igor’,
who girded his mind with firmness
and sharpened his heart with manliness;
filled with a martial spirit,
he led his brave hosts
against the Cuman land
for the Russian land.

Then Igor’ looked
upon the bright sun
and saw that by its darkness
all his warriors were covered.
And Igor’ said
to his retinue:
«Brothers
and retinue!
It would be better to be slain
than to be made captive;
so let us mount, brothers,
on our swift horses,
to look on
the blue Don».
The prince’s mind ignited
with eagerness,
and longing to taste the great Don
veiled the omen from him.
«For I wish», — he said, «to shatter my lance
at the end of the Cuman plain,
with you, Russians, I wish to lay down my head,
or else to drink the Don from my helmet.»

O Bojan, nightingale of olden times!
If you had sung these campaigns,
springing, nightingale, over the tree of thought,
flying in your mind beneath the clouds,
interweaving the glories of both halves of this time,
racing on the path of Trojan
through fields, on mountains,
the song would thus be sung of Igor’,
that one’s grandson:
«It is no storm that sweeps falcons
through the wide fields, —
flocks of jackdaws flee
to the great Don.»
Or it would be sung thus,
o wizard Bojan,
Veles’s grandson:
«Horses neigh beyond the Sula, —
glory rings out in Kiev;
trumpets trumpet in Nověgrad, —
standards are raised in Putivl’!»

Igor’ awaits his dear brother Vsevolod.
And to him says the fierce aurochs Vsevolod:
«My one brother,
my one bright light —
you, Igor’!
we are both Svjatŭslavič’es!
Saddle, brother,
your swift horses,
but mine are prepared for you,
saddled in Kur’sk beforehand.
And my men of Kur’sk are renowned fighters:
swaddled beneath trumpets,
rocked beneath helmets,
nourished at the end of a spear,
the roads are known to them,
the ravines are familiar to them,
their bows are strung,
their quivers open,
their sabres sharpened;
they themselves leap like grey wolves over the plain,
seeking for themselves honor, and for their prince glory.»

Then Igor’ the prince stepped into his golden stirrup
and rode out upon the open plain.
The sun barred him his road with darkness;
night, groaning to him with thunder, awakened the birds;
the howling of beasts arose;
stirring, a daeva
cries from the top of a tree:
he bids them hearken — the unknown lands,
the Volga,
and the sea country,
and the Sula country,
and Surož,
and Korsun’,
and you, idol of T’mutorakan’!
But the Cumans by untrodden roads
fled to the great Don:
their wagons screech at midnight,
one may say, as swans let loose.
Igor’ leads his warriors to the Don!
For already the birds presage his misfortunes
in the oaks;
the wolves conjure a storm
in the ravines;
the eagles with their cries summon the beasts to the bones;
the foxes yelp at the crimson shields.
O Russian land! Already you are beyond the hilltop!

Long the night darkens.
The light of sunset has faded.
Fog has covered the plain.
The song of the nightingales is stilled;
the speech of the jackdaws is awakened.
Russians have barred the great plain with crimson shields,
seeking for themselves honor, and for their prince glory.

From dawn on Friday
they trampled the pagan hosts of the Cumans,
and scattering like arrows over the field,
they carried off the beautiful Cuman maidens,
and with them gold,
and brocades,
and precious samite cloths.
With caparisons,
and with mantlets,
and with fur cloaks
they began to bridge bridges over swamps
and marshy places,
and with all manner of Cuman garments.
A crimson standard,
a white gonfalon,
a crimson horsetail,
a silver shaft —
to the brave Svjatŭslavič’!

In the plain slumbers Oleg’s brave brood.
Far has it flown!
It was not begotten to be injured,
neither by falcon,
nor by gyrfalcon,
nor by you, black raven,
pagan Cuman!
Gzak flees as a grey wolf,
Končak shows him the way to the great Don.

On the second day very early
bloody dawns herald the light;
black clouds come from the sea,
wishing to cover the four suns,
and in them quiver blue lightnings.
There will be a great thunder!
There will come a rain of arrows from the great Don!
Here lances will be shattered,
here sabres will dull
against Cuman helmets,
on the river, on Kajala,
by the great Don!
O Russian land! Already you are beyond the hilltop!

Behold, the winds, Stribog’s grandsons, blow the arrows from the sea
upon the brave hosts of Igor’.
The earth rumbles,
rivers flow turbidly,
dusts cover the plain,
the standards announce:
the Cumans are coming from the Don,
and from the sea,
and from all sides have surrounded the Russian hosts.
The children of the devil have barred the field with a cry,
and the brave Russians have barred it with their crimson shields.

Furious aurochs Vsevolod!
You stand in defence,
you shower arrows upon the warriors,
you thunder upon their helmets with swords of steel!
Wherever, aurochs, you have leapt,
with your golden helmet flashing,
there lie pagan Cuman heads.
Cloven with tempered sabres are Avar helmets —
by you, furious aurochs Vsevolod!
What wound can matter, brothers, to him who has forgotten
both life,
and his father’s golden throne in the city of Černigov,
and his dear beloved’s, the beautiful Glěbovna’s,
wonts and ways?

There were the ages of Trojan,
there passed the years of Jaroslav;
there were the campaigns of Oleg,
Oleg Svjatŭslavič’.
For that Oleg forged strife with his sword
and sowed the earth with arrows.
He steps into his golden stirrup in the city of T’mutorakan’,
and that ringing was heard by great Jaroslav of old,
but Vsevolod’s son Vladimir
on each morning stopped his ears in Černigov.
And the glory of Boris Vjačeslavič’ led him to his doom
and spread out on the Kanina a green funeral-shroud
for his injury to Oleg,
for the brave and young prince.
And from that Kajala, Svjatoplŭk’ ordered that his father be carried
between Hungarian amblers
to St. Sophia in Kiev.
Then, in the time of Oleg, Son of Sorrowful Glory,
feuds were sown and sprouted,
the livelihood of Daž’bog’s grandson perished;
in princely strife human lifetimes grew short.
Then over the Russian land rarely did the plowmen shout to their horses,
but often did the ravens croak,
dividing the corpses among themselves,
and the jackdaws spoke in their own speech,
about to fly off to the devouring.

So it was in those battles and in those campaigns,
but a battle like this was unheard of!
From dawn to evening,
from evening to light,
tempered arrows fly,
sabres thunder against helmets,
steel lances crash
on the unknown field,
amidst the land of the Cumans.
The black earth beneath the hooves was sown with bones
and watered with blood:
sorrow arose throughout the Russian land.

What sounds to me,
what rings to me —
far away early before the dawns?
Igor’ turns his hosts around:
he has pity for his dear brother Vsevolod.
They fought for a day,
they fought for another;
on the third day towards noon the standards of Igor’ fell.
Here the brothers parted on the bank of the swift Kajala;
here the bloody wine was not enough;
here the brave Russians ended the feast:
the wedding guests they plied with the wine, and they themselves lay down
for the Russian land.
The grass droops with pity,
and the tree with sorrow bows over to the earth.

For already, brothers, no happy year has arisen,
already the wasteland has covered over the fallen force.
Injury has arisen in the force of Daž’bog’s grandson,
has come as a maiden to the land of Trojan,
has flapped with swan wings
over the blue sea near the Don,
flapping, has driven away abundant times.
The feud of the princes against paganry has perished,
for brother said to brother:
«This is mine, and that is mine too.»
And the princes began of little matters
to say «this is big»,
and to forge strife against themselves.
But the pagans from all sides invaded with victories
over the Russian land.

O, far has gone the falcon, killing birds, — to the sea!
But Igor’s brave host cannot be resurrected!
For them cries the Mourner, and Lamentation
leaps upon the Russian land,
shaking the embers in her flaming horn.
The Russian women begin to weep, saying:
«No more our dear husbands
can even be thought of with thought,
nor mused of with musing,
nor seen with eyes,
and as for gold and silver, not a bit can they touch.»

And there groaned, brothers, Kiev from sorrow,
and Černigov from affliction.
Anguish poured over the Russian land;
abundant grief flowed amidst the land of Russia.
And the princes forged strife against themselves,
but the pagans themselves,
victoriously invading the Russian land,
levied a tribute of a vair from each household.

For those two brave Svjatŭslavič’es,
Igor’ and Vsevolod —
now awakened the dissensions which
were put to sleep by their father —
Svjatŭslav the great and terrible of Kiev — with his terror:
He beat down with his mighty hosts
and steel swords;
he started against the land of the Cumans,
trampled down hills and ravines,
made turbid rivers and lakes,
dried up streams and swamps.
And the pagan Kobjak from the bight of the sea
from among the great iron hosts of the Cumans
like a whirlwind he seized:
and Kobjak fell in the city of Kiev,
in the hall of Svjatŭslav.
Now Germans and Wends,
now Greeks and Moravians
sing glory to Svjatŭslav,
rebuke Prince Igor’,
who sank abundance to the bottom of the Kajala, the Cuman river,
filling it with Russian gold.
Now Igor’ the prince has changed seats out of his golden saddle,
and into the saddle of a captive.
Thus downcast were the cities’ ramparts,
and happiness drooped down.

And Svjatŭslav saw a turbid dream
in Kiev on the heights.
«This night from evening they clothed me,» — he said, —
«with a black funeral-shroud
on a bed of yew;
they ladled out for me blue wine
mixed with pains,
they poured for me from the empty quivers of the pagan nomads
great pearls upon my breast,
and caressed me.
Already the boards are without a rooftree
in my gold-roofed tower.
All night from evening
dark ravens were croaking;
near Plěsen’sk, on the outskirts, was a wooden sledge,
and it was borne to the blue sea.»

And the boyars said to the prince:
«Already, prince, sorrow has enthralled your mind;
for behold, two falcons have flown
from their father’s golden throne
to seek the city of T’mutorakan’,
or else to drink the Don from their helmets.
Already the falcons’ wings have been clipped
by the sabres of the pagans,
and they themselves fettered
in fetters of iron.

For it was dark on the third day:
two suns were murked,
both porphyry pillars were extinguished
and with them the young moons,
Oleg and Svjatŭslav,
were veiled with darkness
and sank into the sea,
and great audacity imparted to the Hins.
On the river, on Kajala, darkness covered the light;
upon the Russian land the Cumans spread,
like a brood of pards.
Already blasphemy has descended upon praise;
already need has struck down freedom;
already the daeva has thrown himself upon the land.
For behold, beautiful Gothic maidens
have sung out on the bank of the blue sea:
ringing Russian gold,
they sing of the times of Bus,
they lilt the vengeance for Šarokan.

But we, o retinue, are already thirsty for joy!

Then the great Svjatŭslav
let fall a golden word
mixed with tears
and said:
«O my nephews, Igor’ and Vsevolod!
Early you began the Cuman land
to harry with swords,
and for yourselves to seek glory.
But dishonorably you triumphed,
for dishonorably you spilled pagan blood.
Your brave hearts
are forged in fierce steel
and tempered in audacity.
This have you wrought for my silver hoariness?
But already I do not see the power
of my mighty
and rich
and many-soldiered
brother Jaroslav,
with Černigov nobles,
with knights,
and with Tatrans,
and with Šel’birs,
and with Topč(j)aks,
and with Revugs,
and with Ol’bers (Olŭběrs).
For they, without shields, with boot-knives,
with a cry send hosts fleeing,
ringing in their greatgrandfathers’ glory.
But you said: ‹Let us be manly ourselves:
let us ourselves steal the coming glory,
and divide up that of the past for ourselves!›
And what wonder is it, brothers, for the old to become young?
If a falcon is moulting,
it drives birds on high:
it does not let its nest be harmed.
But this is the evil — the princes are no help to me:

inside out the years have turned.
Behold, in Rim they scream beneath Cuman sabres,
and Vladimir beneath wounds.
Sorrow and anguish to the son of Glěb!»

O great Prince Vsevolod!
Will you not fly over in thought from afar
to safeguard your father’s golden throne?
For you can scatter into drops the Volga with your oars,
and bale out the Don with your helmets!
If you were here,
slave girls would be each a nogata,
and captives each a rezana.
For you can on dry land
shoot with living firebolts,
with the bold sons of Glěb.

You, furious Rjurik and Davyd!
Did not your warriors
float with gilded helmets upon blood?
Does not your brave retinue
roar like aurochsen,
wounded by tempered sabres
on an unknown field?
Step, lords, into your golden stirrups
for the injury of these times,
for the Russian land,
for the wounds of Igor’,
the furious Svjatŭslavič’!

O Galician Osmomysl’ Jaroslav!
High you sit
on your gold-forged throne,
having braced the Hungarian heights
with your iron hosts,
having barred the way for the king,
having closed the gates of the Danube,
hurling missiles through the clouds,
spreading your judgements to the Danube.
Your terrors flow over the lands,
you open the gates of Kiev,
you shoot from your father’s golden throne
at the sultans beyond the lands.
Shoot, lord, at Končak,
the pagan captive,
for the Russian land,
for the wounds of Igor’,
the furious Svjatŭslavič’!

And you, fierce Roman, and Mstislav!
Brave thought carries your mind to the deed.
High you float to the deed in audacity,
like a falcon stretching on the winds,
wanting in audacity to overcome a bird.
For you have iron cuirasses
beneath your Latin helmets.
From them the earth trembles,
and many countries —
the Hin land,
Lithuania,
the Yotvingians,
the Brodniks,
and the Cumans threw down their lances
and bowed their heads
beneath those steel swords.

But already, o Prince Igor’,
the sun’s light is dimmed,
and the tree, not goodly, sheds its leaves:
upon the Ros’ and upon the Sula they have divided up the cities.
But Igor’s brave host cannot be resurrected!
The Don, o prince, cries to you
and calls the princes to victory.
The Olgovič’es, brave princes, have hastened to the fray.

O Inŭgvar’ and Vsevolod
and all three Mstislavič’es,
six-winged ones of no mean brood!
Not by victorious fortunes
did you seize power for yourselves!
Where are your golden helmets
and Polish lances
and shields?
Fortify the gates of the field
with your sharp arrows
for the Russian land,
for the wounds of Igor’,
the furious Svjatŭslavič’!

For already the Sula no longer flows with silver currents
to the city of Perejaslavl’,
and the Dvina flows as a swamp
to those terrible Polot’skians
beneath pagan cries.
Alone Izjaslav, the son of Vasil’ko,
rang with his sharp swords
upon Lithuanian helmets,
struck down the glory of his grandfather Vseslav,
and himself beneath crimson shields
upon the bloody grass
was struck down by Lithuanian swords
as with his beloved on a bed.
And that one said:
«Your retinue, prince,
birds have shrouded with their wings,
and beasts have licked their blood.»
His brother Brjačjaslav was not there,
nor his other one Vsevolod:
alone he let fall his pearly soul
from his brave body
through his golden necklace.
Voices have died down,
happiness has waned,
the trumpets of Gorod’c trumpet.
O Jaroslav and all grandsons of Vseslav!
Now lower your standards,
sheathe your dented swords.
For already you have leapt out from your grandfathers’ glory.
For you with your feuds
began to lead the pagans
against the land of Russia,
against the life of Vseslav.
From which arose violence
from the land of the Cumans!

In the seventh age of Trojan
Vseslav cast lots
for the maiden dear to him.
With cunning he propped himself on his horse
and leapt to the city of Kiev
and touched with his spear-haft
the golden throne of Kiev.
He leapt from them as a furious beast
at midnight from Bělagrad,
swathing himself in a blue fog;
he seized good fortune with three parts, —
he opened the gates of Nověgrad,
he shattered the glory of Jaroslav,
he leapt as a wolf
to the Nemiga from Dudutki.

At Nemiga they lay out sheaves of heads,
they thresh with steel flails,
on the threshing-floor they lay down their lives,
winnowing souls from bodies.
Nemiga’s bloody banks
were not sown goodly;
they were sown with the bones of Russian sons.

Vseslav the prince judged the people,
as prince he ruled cities,
but he himself at night prowled as a wolf:
from Kiev he prowled before the rooster to T’mutorakan’,
prowled across the great path of the great Hrŭs.
For him in Polot’sk they rang at matins early
the bells in Saint Sophia,
and he in Kiev listened to the ringing.
And even if he had a wizard’s soul in a valiant body
still often he suffered misfortunes.
For him the wizard Bojan
and the first song, well-thought, said:
«Neither the skillful,
nor the cunning,
nor the clever bird
can escape the Judgement of God.»

O, groan, Russian land,
remembering the first year
and the first princes!
That old Vladimir
could not be nailed to the heights of Kiev:
but now his standards have become standards of Rjurik,
and others — of Davyd,
but their pennons flutter disparately.

The lances sing!

On the Danube Jaroslavna’s voice is heard,
as an unknown cuckoo she cries out early:
«I will take flight,» — she says — «as a cuckoo on the Danube,
I will dip my beaver-fur sleeve in the Kajala river,
I will wipe the prince’s gore of his wounds
on his hardy body.»

Jaroslavna weeps early
in Putivl’ on the ramparts, calling:
«O wind, great wind!
Why, lord, do you forcefully blow?
Why do you carry Hin arrowlets
upon your light winglets
against my beloved’s warriors?
Was it too little for you to blow on high beneath the clouds,
rocking the ships on the blue sea?
Why, lord, my happiness
have you scattered upon the feathergrass?»

Jaroslavna weeps early
to Putivl’ city on the ramparts, calling:
«O Dneper Slovutič’!
You have penetrated the rocky heights
through the land of the Cumans.
You have rocked Svjatŭslav’s galleys upon yourself
to the hosts of Kobjak.
Rock back to me, lord, my beloved,
that I need not send to him my tears
early to the sea.»

Jaroslavna weeps early
in Putivl’ on the ramparts, calling:
«Bright and thrice-bright sun!
To all you are warm and beautiful:
why, lord, did you spread your burning rays
upon my beloved’s warriors?
In the waterless field with thirst why did you shrivel their bows,
with sorrow stop up their quivers?»

The sea splashed at midnight;
waterspouts move like fogs.
To Igor’ the prince God shows the way
from the land of the Cumans
to the land of Russia,
to his father’s golden throne.

The evening twilight is extinguished.
Igor’ sleeps,
Igor’ wakes,
Igor’ measures the field in his thought
from the great Don to the little Donec.
A horse at midnight — Ovlur whistled beyond the river;
he bids the prince understand:
Prince Igor’ must not stay!
He shouted,
the earth rumbled,
the grass rustled,
the tents of the Cumans stirred.
But Igor’ the prince leapt
as an ermine into the rushes
and a white duck upon the water.
He cast himself on his white horse,
and leapt from it as a dark wolf.
And he sped to the bight of the Donec,
and he took flight as a falcon beneath the fogs,
slaying geese and swans
for breakfast,
and for lunch,
and for dinner.
When Igor’ flew as a falcon,
then Ovlur sped as a wolf,
shaking from himself the cool dew:
for they had overridden their swift horses.

The Donec said:
«O Prince Igor’!
Not small is your greatness,
and Končak’s hatred,
and the Russian land’s happiness.»

Igor’ said:
«O Donec!
Not small is your greatness,
having rocked the prince on your waves,
having spread green grass out for him
on your silver banks,
having clothed him with warm fogs
beneath the shade of the green tree;
you guarded him with the duck upon your water,
the gulls upon your currents,
the lapwings on your winds.

Not such was,» — he said — «the river Stugna;
having a meager current,
devouring foreign rills and brooks,
spread out at its mouth,
it closed over the young prince Rostislav.
At the dark bank of the Dnepr
Rostislav’s mother weeps
for the young prince Rostislav.
The flowers droop with pity,
and the tree with sorrow bows over to the earth.»

But these are not magpies chattering:
on the trail of Igor’ rides Gzak with Končak.
Then the ravens did not croak,
the jackdaws fell silent,
the magpies did not chatter,
only the creepers crept.
The woodpeckers by their tapping show the way to the river,
the nightingales with their happy songs
herald the light.

Says Gzak to Končak:
«If the falcon flies to its nest, —
let us shoot the falconet
with our gilded arrows.»

Said Končak to Gzak:
«If the falcon flies to its nest,
let us snare the falconet
with a beautiful maiden.»

And said Gzak to Končak:
«If we snare him with a beautiful maiden,
we will have neither the falconet,
nor will we have the beautiful maiden,
so that the birds will begin to strike us
in the field of the Cumans.»

Bojan told even the campaigns
of Svjatŭslav, that song-maker,
in the old times of Jaroslav,
the favorite of Khagan Oleg:
«Hard for you, o head, without the shoulders;
ill for you, o body, without the head», —
Thus is the Russian land without Igor’.

The sun shines in the heavens —
Igor’ the prince is in the Russian land:
maidens sing on the Danube, —
voices weave across the sea to Kiev.
Igor’ rides by Boričev
to the Holy Mother of God of the Tower.
The countryside is joyful, the cities are happy.

Having sung a song for the old princes,
then hereafter for the young we sing:

«Glory to Igor’ Svjatŭslavič’,
to the fierce aurochs Vsevolod,
to Vladimir Igorevič’!

Hail the princes and the retinue,
fighting for the Christians
against the pagan hosts!

Glory to the princes, and to the retinue!
Amen.»