L. Kondratowicz - Korale.docx

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                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             images.jpg                                                                                                                   Korale – dumka kozacka                                                                                                                                                                   Gdym z Kozakami szedł na boje,                                                                                                                Moja Hanna rzecze:                                                                                                                                                                                                         „Niesiesz, luby, życie swoje                                                                                                                                                     Pod tatarskie miecze!                                                                                                                                                                                        Lecmodlitwaa, płacz dziewczy                                                                                                                                                                                                                          W boju cię ocali;                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Ty mi za to, mój jedyyny,                                                                                                                                Przywieź sznur korali”.                                                                                                                                                                                                       Bóg kazaczej szczęścił braci:                                                                                                                                                             W jednej boju chwili                                                                                                                                             Han tatarsk wojska traci,                                                                                                                                                             A my gród zdobyli.                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Gdy wyparto krzepkie wrota,                                                                                                                                                                                                           Gdy się miasto pali,                                                                                                                                                                                            Inszy srebra, inszy złota,                                                                                                                                   Jam szukkał korali.                                                                                                                                                                             Wśród rabunku los mi służy,                                                                                                                                                                         Pan Bóg zdobycz poda:                                                                                                                              Sznur korali,  krasny, duży,                                                                                                                 Jakby wiśnia młoda!                                                                                                                                                                     Pochwyciwszy zdobycz drogą,                                                                                                                                                                      Już nie szukam dalej,                                                                                                                                               Śpieszę stanąć przed niebogą,                                                                                                                                                        Dać jej sznur korali.                                                                                                                                                                                                   Pędzę stepem, pędzę błonią -                                                                                                                                                                                      Oj, daremna praca!                                                                                                                                                             W naszej wiosce dzwony dzwonią,                                                                                                           Lud z mogiłek wraca.                                                                                                                               Dobrzy ludzie śpieszą ku mnie                                                                                                                                  I wołają z dali:                                                                                                                                            - Twoja Hanna leży w trumnie,                                                                                                                                            Nie trrzeba krali!”                                                        Niosę smutne żale,                                                                                                                          Zapłakałem, zajęknąłem                                 zawieszam u Jej szyi                                                                                                 I roztrąm rzesze,                                              Czerwone krale!                                                                                                                                                                    I przed cerkwią padam czołem,                                                                                                                    I  przed obraz śpieszę,                                                              1081                                                                                                                 Do  najświętszych stóp Maryi

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