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Clamor, clamor, clamor in the forest,
The fog is covering the fields.
The fog is covering the fields, the fields,
A Mother sends her Son away.
-Go, my Son, go, go away from me,
Maybe the Tartar would take you!
-Mother, the Tartar is afraid of me,
In the wide field he keeps his distance.
-Go, my Son, go, go away from me,
Maybe the Turk would take you!
-Mother, the Turk knows of me,
In the open field he stays out of my way.
-Go, my Son, go, go away from me,
Maybe the Pole would take you!
-Mother, the POle knows me well,
He asks me often over for mead.
-Go, my Son, go, go away from me,
Maybe the Moscovite would take you!
-Mother, the Moscovite is talking me into living with him,
so we could hunt Tartars and Turks together.
- Come back, my Son, come back to me, my boy,
So I could wash your head!
- Mother, my head shall be washed by rains,
And my hair shall be combed by feral winds.
Clamor, clamor, clamor in the forest,
Thw fog is covering the fields.
The rains are washing white bones, -
The Son is not coming back...

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Ed Durbrow- Renaissanse Lute: Ruthenica XXXVI