Luka Filipov

Luka Filipov

(an incident of the montenegrin war of 1876-78)

One more hero to be part

Of the Servians' glory!

Lute to lute and heart to heart

Tell the homely story;

Let the Moslem hide for shame,

Trembling like the falcon's game,

Thinking on the falcon's name—

Luka Filipov.

When he fought with sword and gun

Doughty was he reckoned;

When he was the foremost, none

Blushed to be the second.

But he tired of the taint

Of the Turk's blood, learned restraint

From his sated sword—the quaint

Luka Filipov.

Thus he reasoned: Though they fall

Like the grass in mowing,

Yet the dead Turks, after all,

Make a sorry showing.

Foes that die remember not

How our [[w:Montenegrins|]] bought

Our unbroken freedom—thought

Luka Filipov.

So, in last year's battle-storm

Swooped our Servian falcon,

Chose the sleekest of the swarm

From beyond the Balkan:

Plucked a pacha from his horse,

Carried him away by force,

While we cheered along his course:

“Luka!” “Filipov!”

To the Prince his prize he bore

Just as he had won him—

Laid him at the Prince's door,

Not a scratch upon him.

“Prince, a present! And for fear

He should find it lonely here,

I will fetch his mate,” said queer

Luka Filipov.

Back into the fight he rushed

Where the Turks were flying,

Past his kinsmen boldly brushed,

Leaping dead and dying:

Seized a stalwart infidel,

Wrenched his gun and, like a spell,

Marched him back—him heeding well

Luka Filipov.

But the Moslems, catching breath

Mid their helter-skelter,

Poured upon him hail of death

From a rocky shelter,

Till a devil-guided ball

Striking one yet wounded all:

For there staggered, nigh to fall,

Luka Filipov!

Paused the conflict—all intent

On the two before us;

And the Turkish regiment

Cheered in hideous chorus

As the prisoner, half afraid,

Turned and started up the glade,

Thinking—dullard!—to evade

Luka Filipov.

We'd have fired but Luka's hand

Rose in protestation,

While his pistol's mute command

Needed no translation;

For the Turk retraced his track,

Knelt and took upon his back

(As a peddler shifts his pack)

Luka Filipov!

How we cheered him as he passed

Through the line, a-swinging

Gun and pistol—bleeding fast—

Grim—but loudly singing:

“Lucky me to find a steed

Fit to give the Prince for speed!

Rein or saddle ne'er shall need

Luka Filipov!”

So he urged him to the tent

Where the Prince was resting—

Brought his captive, shamed and spent,

To make true his jesting.

And as couriers came to say

That our friends had won the day,

Who should up and faint away?

Luka Filipov.

(Translated by Nikola Tesla and Robert Underwood Johnson)