Miorița

Mioriţa ("The Little Ewe") is an old Romanian pastoral ballad and considered one of the most important pieces of Romanian folklore. It has several, quite different in content versions, one of which was selected by Vasile Alecsandri to the form the textbook reference.

Content

The setting is a simple one: three shepherds (a Moldavian, a Transylvanian and a Vrâncean) meet while attending to their flocks. An apparently enchanted ewe belonging to the Moldavian tells its master that the other two are plotting his murder and the plundering of his assets.

The shepherd replies that, were this to happen, the ewe is to ask his killers to bury his body by the sheep's pen. She is to then tell the rest of his sheep that he had in fact married a princess during a ceremony attended by the elements of nature themselves, and marked by the falling of a star. However, the rite of passage metaphor discards all celestial reference in the version of the story the ewe is to depict to the shepherd's mother: she is to hear only of her son having married a princess.

The Miorita is often referred to in the book; 'My sword hand is singing' By Marcus Sedgwick.

English version by W. D. Snodgrass

Near a low foothill At Heaven’s doorsill, Where the trail’s descending To the plain and ending, Here three shepherds keep Their three flocks of sheep, One, Moldavian, One, Transylvanian And one, Vrancean. Now, the Vrancean And the Transylvanian In their thoughts, conniving, Have laid plans, contriving At the close of day To ambush and slay The Moldavian; He, the wealthier one, Had more flocks to keep, Handsome, long-horned sheep, Horses, trained and sound, And the fiercest hounds. One small ewe-lamb, though, Dappled gray as tow, While three full days passed Bleated loud and fast; Would not touch the grass. ”Ewe-lamb, dapple-gray, Muzzled black and gray, While three full days passed You bleat loud and fast; Don’t you like this grass?

Are you too sick to eat, Little lamb so sweet?” ”Oh my master dear, Drive the flock out near That field, dark to view, Where the grass grows new, Where there’s shade for you. ”Master, master dear, Call a large hound near, A fierce one and fearless, Strong, loyal and peerless. The Transylvanian And the Vrancean When the daylight’s through Mean to murder you.” ”Lamb, my little ewe, If this omen’s true, If I’m doomed to death On this tract of heath, Tell the Vrancean And Transylvanian To let my bones lie Somewhere here close by, By the sheepfold here So my flocks are near, Back of my hut’s grounds So I’ll hear my hounds. Tell them what I say: There, beside me lay One small pipe of beech With its soft, sweet speech,

One small pipe of bone With its loving tone, One of elderwood, Fiery-tongued and good. Then the winds that blow Would play on them so All my listening sheep Would draw near and weep Tears, no blood so deep. How I met my death, Tell them not a breath; Say I could not tarry, I have gone to marry A princess – my bride Is the whole world’s pride. At my wedding, tell How a bright star fell, Sun and moon came down To hold my bridal crown, Firs and maple trees Were my guests; my priests Were the mountains high; Fiddlers, birds that fly, All birds of the sky; Torchlights, stars on high. But if you see there, Should you meet somewhere, My old mother, little, With her white wool girdle, Eyes with their tears flowing, Over the plains going,

Asking one and all, Saying to them all, ’Who has ever known, Who has seen my own Shepherd fine to see, Slim as a willow tree, With his dear face, bright As the milk-foam, white, His small moustache, right As the young wheat’s ear, With his hair so dear, Like plumes of the crow Little eyes that glow Like the ripe black sloe?’ Ewe-lamb, small and pretty, For her sake have pity, Let it just be said I have gone to wed A princess most noble There on Heaven’s doorsill. To that mother, old, Let it not be told That a star fell, bright, For my bridal night; Firs and maple trees Were my guests, priests Were the mountains high; Fiddlers, birds that fly, All birds of the sky; Torchlights, stars on high..”

English version by M.-M. Khesapeake

On a foot-of-hill, On a mouth of heavenile, Lo, they’re coming’n their way, Descending to valey, Three flocks of lambs With three dear-little shepherds. One’s Moldavian, One’s Hungrian, * (Transylvanian) And one’s Vranceanian. But that one Hungrian With that one Vranceanian, Wrath they took advice: At about sun setting They to get slaying The Moldavian one – For he’s thrifty more And, in flocks, more gifty, Some pretty and horny, Horses – docile patiently, Dogs – more bravely!.. But that little Sheeple With beige-coloured woll, Since three days long Talkative she’s all, tasting grass no more. - Thou, dear-little Ewe, Cleany one, curly, Since three days long Your mouth ceases not! Either thou don’t like the grassy, Or got a bit sicky, My dear pretty Ewe? - Thou, my pretty sheph’ To here let thy flock led! To here, into this dark meadow, It’s plenty grass for all And for thee, cool-shadow. My dear lord, lord, Take with thou a dog, The bravest one And thy best pal,

Fo’, at sunset-day Shall slay thee, they: The sheph’ Hungrian With the Vranceanean one! - Thou, lambish, longlocky ewe, If bewitched thou’re, And when dead I shall, fated, be, In this plain of herbagehay, Let the Vranceanean one be told by thou And the Hungrian one too – They to let me buried Right here, meant to be, In my sheep’s enclosure, Accompanying ye also, As from the sheepfold’s back, To hear my dogs’ bark. These thou just should quite say, And at my headside lay One pretty pipe-flute of beech: It says feeling much, One pretty pipe-flute of bone: It says quite a feeling-tone, One pretty pipe-flute of elder-wood: It says with firing-blood! When it’s to be the wind, Through them it shall play sing, And when the sheep shall gather They’ll mourn me for ever With tears of blood’s colour! And about the slaughter Don’t thou tell’em, no: Franky thou just tell’em: That married gone I am, With a lofty fairy, One of the world’s bridie; And that at my wedding A star it was seen falling; That the sun and the moon were – Keepin’ my wreath of marry. Firs and maples – Were they my wedding guests,

As priests – great-tall cliffs, The birds – as folk fiddlers, The birdies – thousands, And the stars – as torches! Well, if thou’d eye perchance, If thou’d as well face An old dear-little mamm, With a girdle of wollen, Her eyes being tearing, On plains crazily running, Everyone, she, asking, And to all of ’hem saying: “Who perchance have met, Who perchance have eyed A lofty dear shepherd, him, Like drawn through a ring, slim? Well, his dear-little face – The milky foamlike is; His dear-pretty moustache – The spikelike of a wheat; His dear-pretty hair – The raven’s feather shade; His dear-pretty eyes – The blackberry of plains?” My Sheeple, ewe, Take on her thy pity And tell what she’d need, That now I’m gone married With a girl of royal fairy, On a mouth of heavenile. And to that dear-little mammy Don’t tell, thou, little-dear pretty, That at my wedding A star was falling, That I had guests at wedding – Firs and maples, As priests – great-tall cliffs, The birds – as folk fiddlers, The birdies – thousands, And the stars – as torches!

This poem was published in this form in Romanian by the poet Vasile Alecsandri, who, most problably, has ‘adorned’ somehow some original fragments of folk poety. With this title ("Mioritza") there are about 1500 versions of Romanian oral poetry, 'Mioritza' meaning ‘The Sheeple’, with the meanig of ‘The Ewe’ or ‘The Sheep’ – the «Talking Sheep» –; all of them have many motifs in common, they being folkloric poems of the oral tradition. This is Khesapeake’s English-version, made at 31.08.2011 and revised in 10.01.2013.

Trivia

• Mioriţa was the name of the state-owned milk company during the Nicolae Ceauşescu régime.
• The first two verses of Mioriţa are written on all the banknotes of Moldova.

External links

• Mioriţa - in English (translation by W. D. Snodgrass)
• The Vesper (Luceafarul) translated by M.-M. Khesapeake (English)