The winter it is past,
The freezing frost and snow,
The springtime it has come,
And to the fields we go.
Above, upon the hilltop,
The flowers bright and blue,
The little singing birds
Their joyful songs renew.
They say in tender tones,
In language sweet and clear,
That every pretty maiden
Should have a lover dear.
But mine has gone away,
A soldier's trade to learn
In service at Bordeaux,
But he will soon return.
We go, my comrades brave,
Let's bid our girls good-by,
Give them a parting kiss,
And tell them not to cry.
With knapsack on the back,
We make a brave convoy.
We march along the road
With gallant songs of joy.
At Bordeaux, when you come,
And other girls you see,
You 'll make another choice,
And think no more of me.
When I am at Bordeaux,
Fond letters I will write,
And give them to the clouds,
That pass with bosoms white.
There will be within them,
In letters deep and clear,
That I will always be
Your lover true and dear.
But the circumstances are not always so cheerful nor the songs so gay. There is a tragedy, when, moved by an irresistible longing, the unfortunate conscript has deserted the ranks, been captured by his comrades, and condemned to suffer the penalty of his weakness in a shameful death. The old songs have many subjects of that kind, whose memory lingers, although the penalty for desertion is now less severe. One of them is Le Deserteur, whose deeply plaintive air, and the melopoeism of its verse, as well as its simple tragedy, have kept it alive.
"For eight long years within the troop I served,
Without a furlough to relieve my pain.
The longing took me to desert the ranks,
To my fair land to turn my steps again.
" I had a luckless meeting on my way,
Three grenadiers before me made a halt.
With handcuffs hard and cold they bound my hands,
And led me to Bordeaux to a prison vault.
"Ah, is it then for love of a brown maid,
That in a cell I lie in dismal mood;
My only couch the hard planks of the floor,
Water and black bread my only drink and food."
But when the maiden heard these words of grief,
Both night and day she walked her love to see.
" Courage, my dear love," through the grate she said,
"I will find out a way to rescue thee.
"I will run out, and seek your captain kind,
Your captain kind, and your brave colonel too.
I will beseech them, and implore a pardon,
I will give them gold to free my lover true!"
"I am deeply grieved, my little shepherdess,
That for this grenadier you should moan and cry.
Before the court of war he must soon appear,
And at the drum will be condemned to die!"
When the maiden heard the cruel words he said,
Her cheeks grew white that were so rosy red.
The captain threw his arm around her waist,
And kindly bade her lift her drooping head.
"Fair shepherdess, take me for your lover,
I will love you well, and free your heart from pain."
Tears within her eyes, and kerchief to her face,
"No, no," she said, "I cannot love again."
But the soldier or the sailor after long years of service gets leave to return to his home on a furlough or a discharge. Sometimes he is welcomed by his aged parents or his faithful wife, who recognize him with joyful surprise, in spite of his rags and wounds; and sometimes he finds that his long absence has wrought fatal changes, that his parents are dead, or his wife, deceived by false news of his death, has married again. Incidents of this latter kind are familiar in folk-song, but there is none where the story is more simply and dramatically told, or where the conduct of the unfortunate husband shows such pathetic refinement of feeling, than in La Femme du Marin, which is one of the best-known and popular of the old songs of Poitou. The air is charmingly soft and melancholy, and the words display a skill in melody which the most accomplished poet might envy. A more felicitous verse can hardly be found in the whole annals of folk-song than this:—
Quand le marin revient de guerre,
Tout doux.
Quand le marin revient de guerre,
Tout doux.
Tout mal chaussé, tout mal vetu,
Pauvre marin du reviens tu?
Tout doux.
It is hardly necessary to apologize for the imperfection of an attempt to render such a flower of poetry into another language.
When the marine came from the war,
Good and kind.
When the marine came from the war,
Good and kind.
With ragged coat and battered shoe.
1 I have translated marin as ''marine" instead of sailor, asin the last verse it is said that he goes back to his"regiment."
Poor marine, from whence come you?
Good and kind.
Madame, I come from the war,
Good and kind.
Madame, I come from the war,
Good and kind.
Bring me now a brimming glass,
That I may drink it as I pass,
Good and kind.
The brave marine begins to drink,
Good and kind.
The brave marine begins to drink,
Good and kind.
Drinks and sings a ballad gay,
While madame wipes the tears away,
Good and kind.
What troubles you, my fair hostess?
Good and kind.
What troubles you, my fair hostess?
Good and kind.
Do you regret the kindly glass,
That you give me as I pass?
Good and kind.
I don't regret my good white wine,
Good and kind.
I don't regret my good white wine,
Good and kind.
A husband's loss bedims my eyes,
For in your looks his image lies,
Good and kind.
Ah, tell me now, my fair hostess,
Good and kind.
Ah, tell me now, my fair hostess,
Good and kind.
Children three he left behind,
But now three more with you I find,
Good and kind.
I had a letter from the war,
Good and kind.
I had a letter from the war,
Good and kind.
Which said my brave marine was dead,
I thought it true; again I wed,
Good and kind.
The brave marine drank out his glass,
Good and kind.
The brave marine drank out his glass,
Good and kind.
Without a word, while soft tears flowed,
To his corps went back his road,
Good and kind.
The larger and more important literature of Spain has naturally drawn a wider attention than that of its smaller neighbor in the Iberian peninsula. The great achievements of Spanish genius in the era of its intellectual efflorescence have compelled the intellectual world to study its language and familiarize itself with its literature. And not only have the great works of Cervantes and Calderon and Lope de Yega been studied and criticised, and reproduced in all the cultivated languages of Europe, but the treasures of popular Spanish poetry, with their rich elements of chivalry and romantic passion, have been carefully studied and exemplified by foreign scholars, and been the inspiration of foreign poets and translators. Hardly any country in Europe has a more valuable collection of popular poetry in the times of its military and intellectual greatness, or which more thoroughly illustrates its history or the characteristics of its national temperament. The long chronicles of the Cid, and the ballad narratives of the exploits of the heroes of the great struggles for the expulsion of the Moors, form in themselves a rich body of national poetry, but they are supplemented by an immense number of episodical ballads relating to events in national history, and lyrical poems and songs expressing the strong feeling and intellectual energy of the people. Many scholars and poets of eminence in European countries have devoted themselves to the reproduction of these Spanish national poems in their own languages, and in England during the early part of the present century there was a strong bent of scholarship in that direction, induced to a considerable extent, probably, by the national interest in the Peninsular war. Southey, Scott, and John Hookham Frere gave admirable translations of Spanish national poems, and the spirited versions of ancient Spanish ballads by Lockhart have been justly considered a permanent addition to English poetry.
But no such degree of attention has been paid to Portuguese literature, although it possesses the same national characteristics as the Spanish, and is not inferior, except in volume, as regards the product of popular poetry and folk-song. This was natural enough. Except the great poem of Camoens, Portuguese literature possesses no masterpiece to compel the attention of the civilized world, and the product of its national genius is not of the bulk and importance of that of Spain. Its national characteristics were similar, so that independent study was not incited by original features, while the difference in language was sufficient to be a barrier to all except special scholars. The country was in a measure overwhelmed and overshadowed by Spain, although possessing independent and interesting features of its own, and has been regarded as a province rather than as an original country. Very little attention has been paid in foreign countries to Portuguese popular literature, although some French and German scholars have included it in their studies, and there is no volume in English, so far as I am aware, which deals with it. At the same time it is well worth attention in its richness and value in all the qualities which make a high order of popular poetry, and in those elements of chivalric feeling, dramatic incident, and intensity of passion which characterize Spanish poetry of the same period. Fortunately Portugal itself has shared in that interest, which has spread through all the civilized countries of Europe in ancient popular literature and folk-song, and its national scholars have devoted a painstaking care and interest to collecting and elucidating its ancient ballads. The pioneer in this work was Almeida Garrett, himself a distinguished poet, who, being compelled to take refuge in England by the political disturbances of 1820, came under the influence of Sir Walter Scott as regards the work which he had done for the national literature of Scotland. Like Scott he at first wrote imitations of the old ballads with their literary style and phrases. These, like all other imitations of ancient ballads, although full of strength and poetical power, had not the genuine naturalness of antiquity and the inimitable flavor of primitive art. Later, on his return to Portugal, Almeida Garrett set himself to work to collect the ancient Portuguese ballads, as Scott had done those of the Scottish border, and was almost equally successful. The backwardness of the Portuguese peasantry in education, and their comparative seclusion from the influences of modern civilization in their mountains and valleys, contributed very much to the preservation of their ancient ballads, and even to-day they are a part of the oral literature of the country. There were of course many ancient ballads, in written and printed forms, which were preserved in libraries and in the papers of old families, but the great bulk of Almeida Garrett's collection was derived from oral tradition. He followed the example of Scott in uniting the best forms of varying versions into a complete and harmonious whole, and it is hardly doubtful that he also supplied an occasional wanting or imperfect line. But his general faithfulness and respect for the originals have been abundantly proved by the work of later collectors. The popular poetry of Portugal owes no less to Almeida Garrett than that of Scotland does to Scott, and he inculcated a pride in national history and national literature by his genius, as well as rescued the remains of ancient popular poetry by his painstaking care. Since his time he has been followed by other Portuguese scholars, who have worked under the restrictions of more absolute faithfulness and historic research imposed by the modern study of folk-lore. Notably Signor Braga has published two very valuable volumes, Komanceiro Geral, relating to the popular poetry of Portugal, and the Cantos Populares do Archipelago Açoriario, the songs of the Azore islands, whose seclusion from the world has been very favorable to the preservation of the ancient popular poetry and folk-lore. There are others who have made national collections, and the folk-songs of the various provinces, so that now the popular poetry of Portugal has been as carefully gathered and preserved as that of any other nation of Europe.
The popular poetry of Portugal had its period of efflorescence contemporaneous with that of Spain, and covered the period of its national energy and enterprise. The oldest specimens now extant are not considered to date beyond the fifteenth century, although, of course, they may have derived their origin from still more ancient ballads. The greater part is included within the two centuries following, when the national mind still preserved the spring and energy which had accomplished such great achievements in navigation and enterprise, and before its spirit had been crushed into the narrow bounds of a restricted and decaying province. Contrary, however, to the condition of the national poetry in Spain, the allusions to the actual events of recorded history are somewhat rare, and, although the actions of kings and national heroes make some figure, for the most part they relate to popular traditions, which have but a vague connection with national history. In style and manner, however, they bear a close resemblance to the Spanish popular poems, and in many instances they appear but as slightly differing variants, although it is doubtful which may have been the original, the Spanish or the Portuguese. The ballad of Dom Yanno, which is a specimen of the longer popular romances, is similar, except in its termination, to the Castilian romance known under the title of the Count Alarcos, and which has been translated by Lockhart under the title of Count Alarcos and the Infanta Solisa. In the Spanish romance the count actually fulfills the commands of the king by murdering his spouse, but before her death she cites the king and the infanta to appear within thirty days before the judgment seat of God, and it is accomplished by their deaths in that time. There are numerous variants to the ballad in Spanish popular literature, and it has been made the subject of dramas by Lope de Vega and others. Its connection with actual history is unknown.
The princess wept and wept again; the reason for her tears
And that her life had little joy within her royal house,
Was that her father had forgot for slowly passing years
To dower her in marriage with some rich and noble spouse.
Her mourning was so deep one night, the king woke in his
bed.
"What, troubles you, my daughter dear, why do you weep
and mourn?"
"Of your three daughters, royal sire, alone I am not wed.
Therefore my days are dark and dull; therefore I am for
lorn."
"What remedy is there for that? I'm not the one to blame;
Ambassadors from Aquitaine and lords from Normandy,
When with noble marriage proffers in suppliance they came,
You would not hearken to at all, nor treat with courtesy."
"Of all the nobles of my court not one is there I see,
Except Count Yanno, who in wealth and lineage of pride
Can for a single instant seem a worthy spouse for thee,
And he has taken to his house a fair and noble bride.''
"O noble father of my soul, you 've named the very one.
If he already has a wife, and even children too,
He owes another pledge to me, for my weak heart he won.
He gave to me his solemn word, and I believed it true."
The king sent summons to the count to come where he awaits.
He had not thought what he should do, or e'en what he
should say.
"'T is but a single moment since I left the palace gates,
And now the king demands me back; what does it mean, I
pray?"
Count Yanno enters in the hall; the king straight to him goes.
"My lord, I humbly kiss your hands; what is your royal
will?"
"You may kiss them for the honor the king on thee bestows,
In wedlock take my daughter's hand, and your sworn troth
fulfill."
Count Yanno, when he heard these words, was struck with
mortal dread.
"My royal master, I 've a wife with whom I live in bliss."
"Go kill your wife without delay, and then my daughter wed."
"What! kill my wife, so innocent! What black command is
this!"
"Be silent, Count, your insolence I will not suffer now.
One cannot trick a royal maid like any simple slave."
"My lord, before your righteous rage in penitence I bow,
That I may pay the debt alone is all I humbly crave."
"That I should kill an innocent, who's never done a wrong,
Such deadly treason would o'erwhelm my soul with shame
and sin.
The life of earth in punishment to justice would belong,
And in the life beyond the grave no pardon could I win."
"The Countess is a burden here, and therefore must she die;
In that gilt basin bring her head, all dripping with its gore."
Count Yanno left the cruel king, his soul in agony,
And followed the dark page, whose arms the fatal basin bore.
The page was clad in mourning garb, the Count in sad array,
As if in pain of parting breath his heart with anguish
swelled,
The Countess ran to meet him, as she saw him far away;
Her husband and her little child in one embrace she held.
"Well come—well come, Count, for my joy;" but not a
word he said,
He mounted slowly up the steps, and locked and barred the
door;
Then bade the wondering servants the supper table spread:
The household marveled at a mien they 'd never seen before,
They did not touch the food or wine, but sat in sad unrest.
The tears welled from Count Yanno's eyes; he bent to kiss
the child,
That to his mother's warm, soft breast his rosy lips had prest:
The infant turned to meet the kiss, and like an angel smiled.
To see that mingled smile and kiss, her heart in sobs broke
out,
The echoes of her bursting grief filled all the lofty room:
"What troubles you, my best beloved; resolve this dreadful doubt,
What is the order of the king that fills you so with gloom?"
The Count choked down his sudden sobs, he could no answer
make.
She clasped his neck and on his mouth she pressed a frantic
kiss.
"Take from my heart this agony I suffer for your sake,
Let me partake your sorrow, dear, and you shall share my
bliss."
The woeful pair from table rose, and sought in bed to rest,
But slumber came not to their eyes, to give their pains
relief.
"By the good God in heaven above, and Virgin Mary blest,
My very life I'd sooner give than see you in such grief."
"May death revenge such black command; perish his tyr
anny!
My Count, I do not understand what't is he bids thee do;
Upon my life and soul, my love, reveal it now to me,
This dreadful shadow of ill fate that comes between us
two."
"The fate of an ill-fated one, and no help can there be,
The king commands that I kill thee, and the Infanta wed."
Scarce had these dreadful words been spoke in stifled agony
When the unhappy Countess fell, as if her life had fled.
God did not give her death's relief, tho' better she had
died
For anguish deeper far than death recalled life to her heart,
"Wait, wait, Count Yanno, kill me not, but let me go and hide
In my dear father's distant house, where I can dwell apart.
"There I will live a maid again, and keep my true troth
plight;
There I will rear this infant, and guard him from all sin;
Though sorrow lies between us two, he 'll be my dear delight,
And I'll be faithful to my love as I have always been."
"How can that be, my best beloved, it is the king's black will
Within that gilded basin there to see your severed head."
"Wait, wait, Count Yanno, kill me not, I have a refuge still;
The cloistered nuns will guard me, when to their cells I've
fled.
"My bread be measured by the ounce, my drink quench not
my thirst,
Then speedily my death will come, nor will the princess
know."
"How can that be, my best beloved, since in that basin curst
I must thy severed head before the king and princess show."
"Enclose me in a dungeon dark, where neither sun nor moon
Shall light the hours I count by sighs until my life has fled."
"How can that be, my best beloved? the hour will come full
soon
When in that gilded basin there the king must see your
head."
The king knocked harshly at the door as these last words
were said:
"If the Countess still is living, quick, quick, make haste to
slay."
"The Countess says her orisons, but soon she will be dead,
And in a single moment's space her soul will pass away."
"Oh, let me say a final prayer to bid the world good-night."
"Make haste to say it, my beloved, for daybreak I can see."
"Oh, God and Virgin Mary blest, I cannot pray aright;
It is not death afflicts me so, but shameful treachery.
"I pity you more than myself, for your base cowardice;
With your own hand you take my life, though reason there
is none
Except the wicked princess' hand will pay the shameful price.
May God forgive you at the hour you stand before his
throne!
"Oh, let me say my last farewell to all I've loved so dear,
The flower of Alexandria, the roses red and white,
The little tender violets, the fountain waters clear,
I've tended you with love and care; the princess' hand will
blight.
"Give me my child, fruit of my womb, in my weak arms to
hold,
That he may feed upon the breast that swells with its last
breath.
It is my blood that he will drink, that runs so faint and cold.
Drink, little infant, drink the milk that's tinged with bitter
death.
To-day you have a mother dear, who loves you tenderly,
To-morrow a step-mother harsh, of loftiest degree."
The great church bell tolls heavily. Ah, Jesus, who is dead?
The infant's lips by miracle this wondrous answer made:
"The princess, choked with wickedness; her soul in sin has
fled;
To part such dear and faithful loves God's holy might for
bade!"
The ballad of The Ship Catharine is one of the best known and most popular among the folk-songs of Portugal. Various attempts have been made by Almeida Garrett, Braga, and others to attach it to some historical event, but without satisfactory success, and, indeed, its character is such that it is apparent that it belongs rather to the order of indefinite romance. The incidents in regard to the drawing of the lots to see who shall be eaten, and the ascent of the sailor to look for land, are to be found in the folk-songs of various maritime nations. One of them has been found in Brittany and has been preserved by M. Luzel in the Gwerzion Breiz-Izel. It relates that a vessel, which had been voyaging for twenty-seven years upon the high seas, naturally fell short of provisions, and the crew were compelled to think of eating each other:
"And when they had drawn for the short straw, it was the master of the vessel to whom it fell—Great God, is it possible that my sailors will eat me?"
"Little page, little page, you who are quick and nimble—go to the top of the main mast to find out where we are."
"And he mounted singing, and descended weeping—I have been to the top of the main mast and have not seen any land."
"Go again to the top of the main mast to find out where we are—It will be for the last time."
"He mounted weeping, and he descended singing —I believe that we are restored to land—I have seen the tower of Babylon," etc.
A ballad, The Little Midshipman, in the popular songs of Provence, is very similar in incident and language to The Ship Catharine, with a change in the localities, the midshipman seeing Toulon and Marseilles instead of the coasts of Portugal and Spain. In later French folk-song the ballad has become a burlesque after the fashion of Malbrook, and is known as Il était un Petit Navire. This in its turn was developed in the after-dinner song of Thackeray, "There were three sailors of Bristol city," and is an instance of the persistence of folk-song, even though changed in form and purpose. The supernatural element in The Ship Catharine is rare in Portuguese popular poetry.
The Catharine was a gallant ship,
On which a wonder did befall
I'll tell the story as it happ'd,
If you will listen one and all.
The ship had ploughed the long, salt seas,
Until a year and day had gone.
Their stores of food were eaten out,
And beef and biscuit they had none.
They tried to soak a shoe to eat,
Its skin so hard they could not gnaw.
For who should serve his mates for food,
In turns the deadly lot they draw.
The shortest straw the captain drew.
I wot it caused him bitter pain:
"Little sailor, climb the top-mast,
And look for Portugal or Spain."
"The coast of Portugal or Spain
On either side I cannot see;
But seven swords drawn from their sheaths
Shine bright and bare to slaughter thee."
"Higher, higher, my little sailor,
On the top-gallant take your stand,
Try and see the coast of Portugal,
Or of Spain the shining strand."
"What reward, my gallant captain!
Both Spain and Portugal I see,
I also see three lovely maidens
Seated beneath an orange tree.
" The eldest of them sews a seam,
Another spins a shining thread,
The fairest sits between the two,
And hangs in tears her lovely head."
"My darling daughters are all the three,
I love them dearer than my life.
For your reward, my little sailor,
The loveliest shall be your wife."
"I do not wish your darling daughter;
The cost of love would be my bane."
"I 'll give you gold beyond your count."
"It cost you too much strife to gain."
"I 'll give to you my courier white,
A nobler never felt the rein."
"I do not want your courier white,
It cost you too much toil to train."
"I 'll give to you my gallant ship,
Upon the seas to sail at will."
"I do not want your gallant ship,
To navigate I have no skill."
"What reward then, little sailor,
Do you demand that I should pay?"
"I want your soul, my gallant captain,
Your soul with me to take away."
"Demon, your claim I do deny.
I will not yield my soul to thee.
My soul belongs to God above,
My body I 'll give to the sea."
An angel caught him in her arms,
And drew him from the boiling spray.
The demon flew; at eve the ship
Was anchored safe within the bay.
It is somewhat singular that with all the enterprise of the Portuguese upon the sea during their period of national glory, their perilous and adventurous navigations, and their many successful engagements in marine warfare, there should be so few ballads relating to the sea-faring exploits. There is one, however, Don Juan d'Armada, which seems to relate to some definite victory over the Turks, but the occasion and even the name of the hero are not recorded in authentic history. It has many features, however, which would indicate that it was the account of an actual event.