When Jesus Christ was yet a child
He had a garden small and wild,
Wherein he cherished roses fair,
And wove them into garlands there.

Now once, as summertime drew nigh,
There came a troop of children by,
And seeing roses on the tree,
With shouts they plucked them merrily.

‘Do you bind roses in your hair?’
They cried, in scorn, to Jesus there.
The boy said humbly: ‘Take, I pray,
All but the naked thorns away.’

Then of the thorns they made a crown,
And with rough fingers pressed it down,
Till on his forehead fair and young
Red drops of blood like roses sprung.

Alexey Pleshcheyev (1825-1893)

When Jesus Christ was yet a child,
He had a garden small and wild,
Wherein he cherished roses fair,
And wove them into garlands there.

Now once as summertime drew nigh,
There came a troop of children by,
And seeing roses on the tree
With shouts they plucked them merrily.

‘Do you bind roses in your hair?’
They cried in scorn to Jesus there.
The boy said humbly ‘Take I pray
All but the naked thorns away.’

Then of the thorns they made a crown,
And with rough fingers pressed it down
Till on his forehead fair and young
Red drops of blood like roses sprung.

Alexey Pleshcheyev (1825-1893)
English: Henry Stoddard

When Jesus Christ was yet a child,
He had a garden small and wild,
Wherein He cherished roses fair,
And wove them into garlands there.

Now once, as summer time drew nigh,
There came a troop of children by,
And seeing roses on the tree,
With shouts they pluck’d them merrily.

‘Do you bind roses in your hair?’
They cried, in scorn, to Jesus there.
The Boy said humbly: ‘Take, I pray,
All but the naked thorns away.’

Then of the thorns they made a crown,
And with rough fingers press’d it down,
Till on his forehead fair and young,
Red drops of blood, like roses sprung.

Alexey Pleshcheyev (1825-1893)

When Jesus Christ was yet a child,
He had a garden small and wild,
Wherein he cherished roses fair,
And wove them into garlands there.

Now once as summertime drew nigh,
There came a troop of children by,
And seeing roses on the tree
With shouts they plucked them merrily.

‘Do you bind roses in your hair?’
They cried in scorn to Jesus there.
The boy said humbly ‘Take I pray
All but the naked thorns away.’

Then of the thorns they made a crown,
And with rough fingers pressed it down
Till on his forehead fair and young
Red drops of blood like roses sprung.

Alexey Pleshcheyev (1825-1893)

When Jesus Christ was yet a child,
He had a garden small and wild,
Wherein He cherished roses fair,
And wove them into garlands there.

Now once, as summer time drew nigh,
There came a troop of children by,
And seeing roses on the tree,
With shouts they pluck’d them merrily.
‘Do you bind roses in your hair?’
They cried, in scorn, to Jesus there.
The Boy said humbly: ‘Take, I pray,
All but the naked thorns away.’

Then of the thorns they made a crown,
And with rough fingers press’d it down,
Till on his forehead fair and young,
Red drops of blood, like roses sprung.

“Tï priletel iz goroda,
Kakiye, skazhi, tam slukhi nosyatsa o nas?”
(Skvortsa kukushka sprashivala raz.)
“Shto zhiteli tolkuyut gorodskiye khot
Naprimer, o pesnyakh solovya?
Interesuyus etim ochen ya.”
“Ves gorod on privodit v voskhishchenye,
Kogda v sadu evo razdastsa trel.”
“A zhavronok?”
“I zhavronok penye plenyayet ochen mnogikh.”
“Neuzhel? Nu, a kakov ikh otzïv o drozde?”
“Da khvalyat i yevo, khot ne vezde.”
“Eshchyo khochu sprosit ya, mozhet statsa,
I obo mne tï slïshal koye-shto?”
“Vot pro tebya, sestritsa, tak priznatsa,
Ne govorit reshitelno nikto!”
“A, esli tak”, kukushka vozopila,
“To o sebe, shto lyudyam otomstit,
Sama ves vek, pokuda khvatit silï,
Ne perestanu ya tverdit:
Kuku, kuku …”

Alexey Pleshcheyev (1825-1893)

‘You have flown in from the town—
Tell me, what tales are they telling about us there?’
(The cuckoo asked the starling.)
‘For example, what do the people of the town say
About the nightingale’s songs?
I’d be very interested to know.’
‘He brings joy to the whole town
When he trills in the gardens.’
‘And the lark?’
‘The lark’s singing captivates many people.’
‘Really? And what about the thrush?’
‘Yes, they praise him also, but not everywhere.’
‘I also want to ask you,
Have you heard anything about me?’
‘Well, to be truthful, sister,
Nobody mentions you.’
‘Ah, if that is true’, said the cuckoo,
To get my revenge on the people
I shall sing for a century, if I have
The strength.
Cuckoo …’

Uzh tayet sneg, begut ruchi,
V okno poveyalo vesnoyu …
Zasvishchut skoro solovi,
I les odenetsa listvoyu!

Chista nebesnaya lazur.
Tepley i yarche solntse stalo;
Pora meteley zlïkh i bur
Opyat nadolgo minovala.

I serdtse silno tak v grudi
Stuchit, kak budto zhdyot chevo-to;
Kak budto schastye vperedi,
I unesla zima zabotï!

Vse litsa veselo glyadyat.
“Vesna!”—chitayesh v kazhdom vzore.
I tot, kak prazdniku, ey rad,
chya zhizn—lish tyazhkiy trud i gore.

No rezvïkh detok zvonkiy smekh
I bezzabotnïkh ptichek penye
Mne govoryat, kto bolshe vsekh
Prirodï lyubit obnovlenye!

Alexey Pleshcheyev (1825-1893)

The snow is melting, streams are flowing;
A breath of spring wafts through the window …
Nightingales will soon be singing
And the wood will adorn itself with leaves!

The sky is clear blue,
The sun warmer and brighter;
It is time for the winds and the cruel blizzards
To depart for a long, long time.

My heart beats loudly in my bosom,
As if in expectation,
As if happiness lay ahead
To banish the winter of care!

Every face looks happy;
You can read spring in every glance,
And he whose life is care and worry,
Now looks happy and carefree.

But the loud laughter of children
And the carefree song of the birds
Tell me who is most in love
With the rebirth of nature!

Akh, uymis tï, burya!
Ne shumite, eli!
Moy malyutka dremlet
Sladko v kolïbeli.

Tï, groza gospodnya,
Ne budi rebyonka!
Pronesites tuchi
Chyornïe storonkoy!

Bur eshchyo nemalo
Vperedi, bït mozhet,
I ne raz zabota
Son evo vstrevozhit.

Spi, ditya, spokoyno …
Vot groza stikhayet;
Materi molitva
Son tvoy okhranyayet.

Zavtra, kak prosnyoshsa
I otkroyesh glazki,
Snova vstretish solntse,
I lyubov, i laski.

Alexey Pleshcheyev (1825-1893)

Be still, storm!
Be silent, fir-trees!
My baby is sleeping
Peacefully in his cradle.

Lord of the storm,
Do not wake my child!
Fly past us,
Black storm clouds!

There may be many more
Storms to come,
And many more cares
To trouble his sleep.

Sleep peacefully, my child …
See, the storm is dying down.
Your mother’s prayer
Is guarding your sleep.

Tomorrow, when you wake
And open your little eyes
Your will again feel the sun,
And love and caresses.

English: Andrew Huth © 2009