Gaily bedight,
A 'familiar' sight,
From story and from saga,
Had journeyed in boots,
Along vengeance's route,
In search of Baba Yaga.
His witch was dead now cold—
This cat so bold—
Loss cut him like a dagger—
Still not he found
No track on the ground
That led to Baba Yaga.
And, as his ire
burned into too hot a fire,
He had a drink in a plaza—
‘Bartender,’ asked he,
‘Where can she be—
The witch called Baba Yaga?’
‘Over the Mountains
Of the Rus,
Into the forest of the Magi,
Stride, boldly stride,’
The man replied,—
‘If you seek out Baba Yaga!’
