We here subjoin some specimens of them.  The first is extant in a great many versions, differing somewhat from each other.  We choose the one we like best, as given by Sacharof:[24]

A PARTING SCENE.

  “Sit not up, my love, late at evening hour,
  Burn the light no more, light of virgin wax,
  Wait no more for me till the midnight hour;
  Ah, gone by, gone by is the happy time! 
  Ah, the wind has blown all our joys away,
  And has scattered them o’er the empty field. 
  For my father dear, he will have it so,
  And my mother dear has commanded it,
  That I now must wed with another wife,
  With another wife, with an unloved one! 
  But on heaven high two suns never burn,
  Two moons never shine in the stilly night;
  And an honest lad never loveth twice! 
  But my father shall be obey’d by me,
  And my mother dear I will now obey;
  To another wife I’ll be wedded soon,
  To another wife, to an early death,
  To an early death, to a forced one.”

      Wept the lovely maid many bitter tears,
  Many bitter tears, and did speak these words: 
  “O beloved one, never seen enough,
  Longer will I not live in this white world,
  Never without thee, thou my star of hope! 
  Never has the dove more than one fond mate,
  And the female swan ne’er two husbands has,
  Neither can I have two beloved friends.”

      No more sits she now late at evening hour,
  But the light still burns, light of virgin wax;
  On the table stands the coffin newly made;
  In the coffin new lies the lovely maid.

THE DOVE.

  On an oak tree sat,
  Sat a pair of doves;
  And they bill’d and coo’d
  And they, heart to heart,
  Tenderly embraced
  With their little wings;
  On them, suddenly,
  Darted down a hawk.

  One he seized and tore,
  Tore the little dove,
  With his feather’d feet,
  Soft blue little dove;
  And he poured his blood
  Streaming down the tree. 
  Feathers too were strew’d
  Widely o’er the field;
  High away the down
  Floated in the air.

  Ah! how wept and wept;
  Ah! how sobb’d and sobb’d
  The poor doveling then
  For her little dove.

    “Weep not, weep not so,
  Tender little bird!”
  Spake the light young hawk
  To the little dove. 
    “O’er the sea away. 
  O’er the far blue sea,
  I will drive to thee
  Flocks of other doves. 
  From them choose thee then. 
  Choose a soft and blue,
  With his feathered feet,
  Better little dove.”

    “Fly, thou villain, not,
  O’er the far blue sea
  Drive not here to me
  Flocks of other doves. 
  Ah! of all thy doves
  None can comfort me;
  Only he, the father
  Of my little ones.”

  P.

The following little elegy we translate from a Russian Annual; the editor of which, Baron Delvig, took it down from the lips of a peasant girl.