From bells of Tarja the sad notes flow:
Faded the sweetheart of the brave youth.
Three doves are ringing the bells of woe,
To mourn their sister in love and truth.
With lily flowers they painted her shroud,
And that is why't is so pure and white.
Her love bends o'er it, and weeps aloud;
His heart's black tears its radiance blight.
They planted rosemary on her grave;
Weeping he followed his sweetheart's hearse.
His tears were dew where grave grasses wave:
"Return my love or have my curse!"
Her linen chemise none will wash now,
Except the rain of his weeping eyes;
The tangled curls on her pallid brow
No one will caress with soothing sighs.
Again at Tarja the bells ring slow—
For the youth himself they sadly toll.
He wept so much for his dove laid low,
To-day they weep his own parting soul.
Young maids, young maids of Tarja's plum grove,
By constant presence pay love's debts.
For a young man's heart breaks for his dove,
While a young girl's heart weeps and forgets.
"In the great court of thy small dwelling,
My dear rose, what doest thou?"
"I cook my pullets; my heart I'm telling
My love for his supper will come but now."
"In the great court of thy small dwelling,
My dear rose, what doest thou?"
"I trim my dress; my heart I'm telling
My love will be coming with shining brow,"
"In the great court of thy small dwelling,
My dear rose, what doest thou?"
"I gather flowers; my heart I'm telling
My garlanded hair will attest my vow."
"Cook not your fowls, nor trim your dresses,
Put no flowers in your hair.
My dear rose pale, for your raven tresses
A branch of willow you may find and wear."
The fatal fight is done and over,
Three came back to tell the tale.
On the bloody field there lies thy lover,
And his winding sheet is his broken mail.
"Oh, cruel bird, I 'll curse your singing,
Fatal voice that tears my breast.
My mother the shroud will soon be bringing,
And in white grave clothes I 'll be drest."
"Whence comest thou with knitted brows,
My heart, my soul, my little son?"
" I come from my love's sister's house,
Dear lady mother.
Oh, my heart aches so,
Make ready my bed."
"What has she given you to eat,
My heart, my soul, my little son?"
"She gave me a crab with four feet, 1
1 The crab with four feet is the conventional poisonous foodin Hungarian folk-lore, as the toad is in English and thespotted frog in French.
Dear lady mother.
Oh, my heart aches so,
Make ready my bed."
"How served she it for you to dine,
My heart, my soul, my little son?"
"She served it in a salver fine,
Dear lady mother.
Oh, my heart aches so,
Make ready my bed."
"Is it that makes you look so white,
My heart, my soul, my little son?"
" Yes, that will kill me ere the night,
Dear lady mother.
Oh, my heart aches so,
Make ready my bed."
"What will you leave your father gray,
My heart, my soul, my little son?"
"My brass-trimmed wagon, new and gay,
Dear lady mother.
Oh, my heart aches so,
Make ready my bed."
"What will you leave your brother brave,
My heart, my soul, my little son?"
"My four strong oxen he can have,
Dear lady mother.
Oh, my heart aches so,
Make ready my bed."
"What will you leave your brother fair,
My heart, my soul, my little son?"
"My four swift horses for his share,
Dear lady mother.
Oh, my heart aches so,
Make ready my bed."
"What will you leave your sister bright,
My heart, my soul, my little son?"
"My household vessels silver white,
Dear lady mother.
Oh, my heart aches so,
Make ready my bed."
" What will you leave your love's false kin,
My heart, my soul, my little son?"
"The fire of hell her heart within,
Dear lady mother.
Oh, my heart aches so,
Make ready my bed."
"What will you leave your mother dear,
My heart, my soul, my little son?"
"The grief and pain you 'll have to bear,
Dear lady mother.
Oh, my heart aches so,
Make ready my bed."
The rain falls in a few small drops,
Gyuri Bandi beside the gallows cries,
Beyond Szeged the woodman chops
The tree, from which the croaking raven flies.
Yet Gyuri Bandi naught has done
But twist his kerchief to a solid cord,
And knot it round his wife's neck bone,
To deck a tree for her sovereign lord.
His shirt and kilt he'd bade her lave,
That he might ride to his captain's abode.—
Then he bridled his steed so brave,
And away to his rose's bower he rode.
"Ah, mother dear, I have sinned a sin,
I've killed my wife with my love to go."—
Then Gyuri Bandi drank at the inn,
And slept in the cloak of Kasa his foe.
Gyuri Bandi was bound with chains,
From the judge's mouth his doom was told,
The gallows tree in winds and rains
Dandles and rocks him, alone and cold.
Gyuri Bandi had never thought
The wind would rock him on the gallows tree,
Even Kasa himself, whose blood he'd sought,
Was dismal at heart the sad sight to see.
"Soft shines the light of the evening star,
Beneath my window my love stands tall.
Dear mother, let me undo the bar,
My heart beats fast to come at his call."
"My darling rose, to the window glide,
Your honey lips let me deeply kiss,
A thousand sorrows in my heart abide,
With but a touch they 'll bloom in bliss."
"Mother, do you hear his magic call?
I have tied a bunch of roses red,
In his hat to shine above them all,
As pride of his kiss would lift my head."
"My daughter, you are too young for love,
Too soon it is for the matron's cap,
For a maiden's smile the world will move,
With lover's tears for joy's good hap."
"Dearest rose, to each other we're due,
We 'll marry the coming Easter morn,
Believe me, I 'll be more kind to you
Than both your parents since you were born.
"Mother, do you hear my lover's vow,
Believe me, my pearl will be my life.
Dear mother, let me go to him now,
I die to tell him I'll be his wife."
"My darling, don't trust to young men's speech,
He 'll love you while you are not his own,
But marriage its sorry lore will teach,
With a cudgel's blow to make you groan."
"I have seen my father beat you too,
But for all his blows you love him dear;
I'm sure I can love as well as you,
And no warning voice shall make me fear."
"Where go ye, dear orphans three?"
"Far from this place for work to seek."
"Oh, do not go, dear orphans three,
For work you are too small and weak."
"Come, I will give you three small wands,
Upon your mother's grave to knock."
"Arise, arise, our mother dear,
Cold and ragged are your flock."
"I cannot rise, dear orphans three,
Within my shroud I'm dried to bone;
But you have now a second mother,
Who will tend you as her own."
"When she combs our tangled hair,
Her talons scratch and make us bleed,
And when she gives us food to eat,'
'T is with curses she would feed."
"Why do you grumble, comrade, that there's nothing in your
purse?
God is good, his gifts are sure, keep up your heart from woe;
The winter it will soon be past, the bloom come to the furze,
And where our eyes look round us we will go."
"How can I help my sadness, lad, how can I drop my care?
All the ills of life I feel in my bosom sore;
I cannot sleep nor rest, nor breathe refreshing air,
My heart is in a well and covered o'er.
"My side is naked to the blast, my coat to rags is torn,
My shoulder blade is bleeding raw, where my belt will chafe,
My horse has lost a shoe behind, the others they are worn,
And I'm afraid that none of them are safe.
"In my mantle the rain has soaked, and rotted its strength
away,
I cannot hope for another; no one will make a gift;
have my wallet still, but bare and empty it must stay;
But that is not the worst of all my shrift.
"From my trimming of good wolf's fur the hair is falling out,
Across my flagon's mouth the spider has spun a sheet;
The joys of youth have left me; no one comes me about,
To wash my sweated shirt and make it neat."
"For all the ills of life, my friend, one lives as best one may.
The blest rays of the sunshine still warm my heart and
breast.
When I can't eat, I light my pipe, and puff my care away.
Poor fellows live; I live as do the rest."
"Heaven bless you,
Judge, my lord,
Keep your house
In safe accord."
"What kind fortune
Did you send
To my house
Your steps to bend?"
"I led my geese
To meadows green,
The judge's son
With stones was seen,
He killed my gosling
Of yellow sheen."
"What shall be paid,
Ilona fair,
For thy young gosling
The lad killed there?"
"For each of his feathers,
A ducat bright;
For each of his feet,
A spoon so white;
For his two wings
Two salvers dight;
For his warbling throat
A horn of might."
"If your demands
You place so high,
Upon the gallows
The lad must die."
"May the gallows tree
Be a rose, my lord,
And my two arms
Its strangling cord."
Often my father and mother I prayed
Not to send me up to the mountain high,
To the mountain cold, where the brigand strayed,
And waited to clutch me as I came nigh.
At this very hour at the highway cross,
He waits for the stranger to rob his gold,
The robbed has only his money's loss,
But the wretched robber his soul has sold.
In the morn I rise bloody clothes to lave,
In the early morn, where the stream runs still.
Why weepest thou, girl?"
No sorrows I have,
But my fire's sharp smoke has made my eyes fill."
The night sinks softly on the plain,
The heifer's bell is still;
A lone pipe calls with magic strain—
The girl leans on the sill.
"Here on the prairie I am alone;
My cows and horses rest;"
The young girl to the plain has gone
With longing in her breast.
The master's herd is moving slow;
The young girl follows on;
Dear shepherd, spread your soft cloak now
The dewy earth upon."
The wheat has not filled out its ear,
But birds have picked the grain;
"See, mother, in the early year,
How love has brought me pain."
"My daughter, I will curse your name,
If you the shepherd wed."
"Mother, I'll bear your fiercest blame,
My heart will rest his head."
I've bought three scarfs of white;
I 'll be white as any swan,
And none will dare embrace me,
When the three white scarfs I don.
I've bought three scarfs of red;
I 'll be red as any rose;
My love will rain his kisses
When such a floweret blows.
I've bought three scarfs of gold;
I 'll be yellow as its hue;
I 'll glitter like a weathercock,
While all the world shines new.
I've bought three scarfs of brown;
I 'll be brown as any owl;
None will dare to ask a kiss
From such a timorous fowl.
In the harvest field there are three flowers.
These words said the bright flower of corn:
I am the brightest that charms the hours,
I 'm gathered for the church, and they say I the flesh of
Christ new born.
In the harvest field there are three flowers,
These words said the flower of the vine:
I am the brightest in all the bowers,
I'm gathered for the church, and they say the red blood of
Christ is mine.
In the harvest field there are three flowers,
These words said the wee violet blue:
I am the brightest beneath the showers,
For the young maidens cull me to deck the hats of those they
love so true.
Before thy door the bright, green corn
Bends o'er the pebbly path,
Its blooming flowers are not yet born
Two doves coo in the math.
Comes tripping by a village lass:
Her skirts are wet with dew,
Has she been raking the moistened grass?
Oh, I am far from you.
My sweetheart, I'm as far from you
As I have been for years,
Of her I ask each stranger new,
No tidings reach my ears.
O'er the lone prairie the wind whistles cold,
The young shepherd sadly follows his way.
"Where is your flock?"
Oh, my sheep I have sold."
"Where is your gayety?"
Vanished away."
"Your sheep you have sold! Why did you so?"
"Because on earth I shall need nothing more."
"Why did your light heart to a sad one grow?"
"Because my false love has wounded it sore."
"God guard you, dear prairie, and comrades brave,
My reed pipe again I shall never play."
O'er the lone prairie the bitter winds rave,
The young shepherd sadly follows his way.
May beetle, golden beetle;
I do not ask when summer will come;
I do not ask how long I shall live,
I only ask for my rose in bloom.
May beetle, golden beetle;
I do not ask for the summer's light,
For a summer's fire in my heart has burned,
Since my rose first flamed upon my sight.
The time will come, the time will come,
When you will come to weep before the house;
When you will clasp the doorpost of the entrance,
In deep regret for your unfaithful vows.
The time will come, the time will come,
When you will come to weep before my door.
Perhaps I may a word or two say to you,
But not the words I said to you before.
When I was a gallant lad,
I'd come from my door with glee;
I'd thrill the air with shouts of joy,
And the world would know 5t was me.
Now I am a graybeard old,,
I come from my door with pain,
Let me shout as loud as I may,
No voice will answer again.
The petals of the white rose fall;
To-day another weds my rose.
Through the wood the violins call,
And my heart shuts tight with its woes.
The shining star adorns the night,
In vain for thee my heart has beat,
My star for me has quenched its light,
But in my heart its ray is sweet.
At Dobreesen flowers a fair rose-tree;
It bears a lovely perfumed rose,
But what is that lovely rose worth to me,
If far beyond my reach it blows.
The young postilion is sounding his horn,
He brings a letter from my dear.
But her letter of gold leaves me forlorn,
Since she comes not to meet me here.
Down there under the steep hillside,
A small apple-tree blooms in pride.
Its flowers are fair; its fruit is sweet,
A little maiden sits at its feet.
She tresses garlands of red and white;
On her breast they turn to silver bright.
She lifts her eyes to the heavens vast,
And sees a wide road winding past.
Its borders two like silver gleam,
The middle is a golden stream.
A lamb walks there with curly bell,
On each curl point tinkles a bell.
The wild duck broods in the reedy grass,
In the meadow rich ripens the corn,
But the place where lives a faithful lass
I never have found since I was born.
In the lonesome night the stars are falling,
The young man drags his feet toward the house.
Heavy in his heart are voices calling,
And hatred of the world his miseries arouse.
In the lonesome night the stars are falling,
In the white mansion the candle glimmers red.
Flowers strew the couch. Oh, the sight appalling!
The brown girl in her shroud lies stretched upon her bed.
They are sweeping the wide street.
The soldiers start marching down
A maid of sixteen, red and sweet,
Is following out of town.
The young captain turns and speaks
"What this means I must know."
She answers with tear-wet cheeks,
"I follow where'er you go."
The roads are thick with snow,
The black steed gallops wide.
His bridle reins hang low
In his mad master's ride.
The brigand on the steed
Breathes deep, and sadly sighs,
"I dreamed not, in my need,
She'd sell me to the spies.
"Of all the brigands cursed,
Who rob on the wide plain,
The soldiers seek me first,
To bind me with a chain.
"My father was a thief,
My grandfather likewise.
To honest life's relief,
How can such seed arise?"