„Myoritsa”’s Monument

The monument, dedicated to the ballad “Myoritsa” was installed in Chisinau at the beginning of March 2022, author – Veaceslav Jiglițchi.

For Moldovans, „Myoritsa” is a historical memory. Although the plot of the Moldovan folk ballad is far from heroic, on the contrary – the hero of the ballad believes in the irreversibility of fate, which should not be fought at all, but accepted as it is… Sheep Myoritsa warns the young shepherd that two other shepherds are plotting to kill him out of envy. Anticipating his doom, the shepherd turns to his favorite sheep and shares his last wishes with it… The symbols present in „Myoritsa” originate from ancient rituals and beliefs. Historians believe that the ballad dates back to the XII-XIII centuries and is one of the oldest sources where the nationality “Moldovan” first appears.

In 1846, the writer Alecu Russo heard from the Leutarians and wrote down his version of “Myoritsa,” which was later published by another writer – Vasile Alexandri. A few years later, Alexandri encountered another version of the ballad, altered the original text, and published the revised “Myoritsa” in two collections of folk poetry.

“Myoritsa” has been translated into foreign languages many times. Like any masterpiece of folk art, it is very challenging to translate into poetic for

The little ewe Myoritsa (pastoral ballad)

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 оne, 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 sо 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 yоu.”

”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

Sо 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

Whith its soft, sweet speech,

One small pipe of bone

Whit its loving tone,

One оf elderwood,

Fiery-tongued and good.

Then the winds that blow

Would play on them sо

All my listening sheep

Would draw near and weep

Tears, no blоod 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 hоld 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,108

Fоr 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 nоt 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…

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