Found this on a google image search…no explaination but I thought worth sharing to show the sexy side of axe play:)

SONG OF THE OPRISHKI
HAI, Brethren, Oprishki—give me morehoreevka !
On the camp-fire now heap on more wood.
If you tuned then my throat to the sound of
Sopeevka,
I’d sing for as long as I could.
We are safe just as long as the green grass is
growing—
If the forest of leaves be not bare,
If behind the thick bush and green pine we are
going,
Even Chorts could not find us hid there.
As the heaven for birds, so for us are the hollows,
The caves in Carpathian crests.
We sleep till the stars, till our own shadow
follows,
And then we creep out of our nests.
Tobacco we bring from far Hungary’s borders (
Fleet horsemen their chase may give o’er),
The Jew merchant clothing shall give at our orders,
Or else he’ll be nailed to his door.
Be joyful, my brothers, each day that is ours,
No life such as this can last long.
When snow falls our heads will hang down like
the flowers;
No more shall be heard our glad song.
For Austrian soldiers, when first snow is falling,
In uniforms white will appear. . . .
Kolomea ! Thy bells as of old may be calling—
Their chiming we never shall hear.

THE DEATH OF DOBUSH
ALONG the edges of the wooded height
Walks young Dobush;
Lame in one leg, he on his topir leans
And calls his lads
“0, ye Legini, O, my boys !
We’ll council hold
Whom next are we to rob ?
Kooty we must not miss,
Nor overlook Kossiev.
Now sleep, my boys,
Because we rise at dawn;
Dress in a trice, skin postoli put on,
Povoloki of silk. . . . “
Now run, boys—quick !
Snow covers all the paths;
To Dzveenka’s house go first,
Where we’ll see Stefan’s wife.” “
Oi, Dobush! Nay, my lord,
Sure mischief will befall.” “
Don’t trouble about me;
Load your good musket with
A double charge—stand by the gate—
I’ll to the window go
To see if she still sleeps.” “
My heart, dost thou sleep,
Dost thou hear ?
Dost thou wish to receive Dobush ? ” “
I am not asleep. No. I hear
Each word that you say to me.
I’m working that I may sup—
Stefan is not at home. . . .
The supper’s not ready yet,
But ’twill be a splendid one,
And a wonder for all the world.” “
Dost thou sleep, my heart,
Dost thou hear ?
Wilt receive Dobush for the night ? ” “
I sleep not—I hear every word—
I will not let the robber in.” “
Wilt thou open the door, I say ?
Dost tell me to storm it then ? ” “
I give no command to storm.
But—open it ? No, not I.” “
Let me into the hut—thou fool !
Ere I break open the door.” “
My door is too strong for you—
My locks are of trusty steel.” “
Thy locks will not help thee much
When to them my shoulder I set.” “
The strength of full seven more years
You’ll need ere you burst my door.”
Dobush, Dobush pressed hard—
The locks fell in a heap,
And Dobush opened the door,
Just a little opened the door. . . .
And then Dzveenka fired
From the attic where he hid,
He aimed at the heart of Dobush.
Not in the heart fell the blow;
Through shoulders the bright blood burst. “
Dog-catcher ! You ! Dzveenchuk !
You have eaten me up for her.” “
Why did you woo her ? Why
Did you say you were Dobush ?
Why tell her all the truth ?
Knew you not woman’s truth
Is fast-running water’s foam ? “
The Oprishki came to the hut
But they found Dzveenka was flown. “
Oi ! Dobush, our good lord,
Why killed you not the wife f ” “
How could I kill her, say,
If I loved her so much ?
Oi, Dobush, our great lord !
Misfortune’s surely here.
Treachery ne’er before
To your Legini came,
But now there’s treachery.” “

Legini, Oi! my boys,
Lay me on your topirs,
Carry me down in the Chorna-Hora,
Where the Black Mountains be,
Then cut my body up as fine as poppy seed.
Let not the Germans mock,
Or quarter my body. “
Divide among yourselves the treasure that was
ours—
Then singly go away.
But not to rob—
Not to shed human blood;
Blood is not water, mind,
Not meant to be poured down! “
But then the Germans came,
And Dzveenka led them on. “
Oi, Oi, Dobush, our lord,
What woeful fate is ours !
Where shall we winter spend,
Where all the summer days ?
In Stanislav, my boys,
Yea, at the market-place!
Tortured, while, bound in irons,
Germans shall tear your flesh,
And there you’ll sleep for aye.

The Death of Janosik

Light upon the mountain-pray, what may be doing? Twelve robust and strapping youngsters rendezvousing, Youngsters hale and handsome, fond of sport and laughter, Never lived their like before and scarce will live hereafter! Falcons of the Tatras, faithful to each other, As if they were offspring of one common mother; Offspring! Yea, and fondlings, washed in milk and bathed, Delicately nursed, in golden garments swathed, Braves of form and figure, straight as altar tapers, Brightening the gloom of sylvan shades and vapors; Shirts of verdant velvet, silvered rich and regal, Hats profusely studded, feathered with an eagle; Armed with axe and carbine, pistols too for action – These are my enjoyment, pride, and satisfaction! When they stop to bivouac ’round a camp fire gleaming, Twelve surrounding counties watch its skyward beaming; When they start to drill with boyish animation, Twelve surrounding counties throb in exultation, Ay! and when their axe gleams in the sun’s attention, Lords of distant Budin quail with apprehension! * * * Tatras, spacious Tatras – nooks for trysts and rambles, Ranges, misty ranges – fields for wanton gambols – And you Krivan castle frowning in the distance; Who could dare to blight these youngsters’ free existence? And their gallant captain – what a lord in bearing! With a plume of blue and a scarlet cape he’s wearing; When he’s on the mountain, like a dawn at breaking. When he’s in the forest.. all the earth is quaking! Danube and the Tatras hear the groans ascending; I Take your tax.. you tyrants.. reckoning is pending; Keep the pelf, you wolves, your pelts shall pay our labors, When, surrounding you, will flash a dozen sabres: “Stand!” ten voices thunder. “Stand you paltry traitor! Hand to us your hoard, your soul to your Creator!” – Blades and pistols ready dignify the bustle:- “Give us back the plundered Slovak brawn and muscle!” Translated by George Gallik. Reprinted from Manning, An Anthology of Czechoslovak Poetry.