There came three minstrels in the days of old
To the Avaric savage--in their hands
Their own Slavonian citharas they hold:
"And who are ye!" the haughty Khan demands,
Frowning from his barbaric throne; "and where--
Say where your warriors--where your sisters be."
"We are Slavonians, monarch! and come here
From the far borders of the Baltic sea:
We know no wars--no arms to us belong--
We cannot swell your ranks--'tis our employ
Alone to sing the dear domestic song."
And then they touched their harps in doubtful joy.
"Slaves!" said the tyrant--"these to prison lead.
For they are precious hostages indeed!"