Regretting naught and spared all care,

Their roaming life he daily shares.

He is the same, nor have they changed;

The years gone by he has forgot,

And gipsy life is now his own.

The tent's hard couch on which he sleeps,

Unconscious of the morrow's fate;

The routine march of ease unbroke;

The language poor, but soft and sweet;

In all he finds alike delight.

The bear, its native haunt forgot,

Is now the sharer of his tent.

In villages that skirt the road,

They stop before Moldavian homes;

To please a timid, gaping crowd,

The bear will dance his clumsy step,

And grol wimpatient at his chain;

And, leaning on his pilgrim-staff,

The old man idly beats his drum;

Aleko, singing, leads the bear;

Zemphire is sent to make the round,

And beg from each a small reward

But night has set, and they all three

The evening meal prepare to share.

The old man sleeps and all is still;

Within the tent dead silence reigns.

VI.

The tents gleam bright in spring sun's rays,

The old man warms his sluggish blood,

His daughter sings a song of love,

Aleko listens and grows pale.

ZEMPHIRE (singing).

Husband old, husband fierce,

Burn, hack me with thy sword'

I am bold, do not fear