Eduard Bagritsky
The Ballad of Dick Whittington

He lifeless fell. And by my hand
A savage courage it was leading.
A needle’s useless – understand –
To staunch a swordsman’s wounded bleeding.
My debt’s repaid. No wonder now
I find my conscience reminisces
About the purest love and how
For blood blood’s paid and kiss for kisses.
Oh, in the rainy, lamp-lit night
You blast my ears with dreaded gusting,
At first you cow ’neath judge’s height,
Then comes the axeman’s blockwards thrusting.
Hard lesson learned I took to heart
Amidst the sleep-filled nighted vapours –
To south, to west, to north then start,
Propel me, ship, through spumy capers.
The far-off shore behind the stern
Recedes, recedes as sea is spraying
Where lies my sword, concealed by fern,
In grassy verge it is decaying.
And from the shore the chime is borne,
Its distant song distinctly ringing:
“Turn back, turn back, Dick Whittington,
Oh, Whittington turn back!” it’s singing.
And cruel was the dawn’s first draught.
As, raw and scarlet, sun was rising,
The sand now scraped the flimsy craft,
And foundered ship apart was prising.
It is the first time anyone
Has stepped on shores unknown to ages
Whose monstrous stretch was never done
By folk in any annal’s pages.
We raised up logpiles in a row,
For doors cut through some simple niches,
Together palm leaves set to sew
A kind of roof with hurried stitches.
We raised the roof with hammer’s thwack,
We ripped the rocks apart with shovel…
“Oh Whittington, turn back, turn back,”
The waves addressed our humble hovel.
At random then we laid a track
That cut through seaside’s scrub, meandering.
“Oh, Whittington, turn back, turn back,”
caressed our ears fresh wind’s philandering.
And from the sea there came a sound,
An indistinct and gentle ringing:
“Turn back, turn back, Dick Whittington,
Turn back, turn back,” its voice was singing.
For days and nights without a break
We planes and knives and axes wielded –
A clumsy raft we set to make,
We put to sea – to summons yielded.
Without a compass or a wheel
We weren’t aware where we were carried,
And all the while our rough-hewn keel
With sagging sails in doldrums tarried.
And we are home. We’re there at last.
The prodigal’s returned – assemble!
O canvas, flap against the mast.
O vessel harboured, clink and tremble.
And from the shore a chime is borne,
Its nearby song distinctly ringing:
“Get out of here, Dick Whittington,
Dick, turn again,” its voice is singing.

Translated by Rupert Moreton