XXV.Medley.

FROM THE SWEDISH.

Kangas lieth in Sioni; ’tis a homestead that scarce has an equal;Plenteous in wood and in corn-fields, with rich grassy meadows and moorland.This won my father, in wedding the farmer’s fair daughter;And here he grew old, like a summer’s eve calmly declining.From him came the farm unto me; and here, like my father,I spent the best years of my life, and dwelt like a king amid plenty.Servants I had; men servants to plow with my oxen;And maids in the house, too; and children, the joy of their motherAnd the hope of my eye, who grew up like olive-plants round us.Thus sowing and reaping in comfort, from season to season abode I,Envied by many, but having the good-will of all men.At length came misfortune, and so put an end to my gladness.The frost of one night destroyed all my yet unreaped harvest,Wolves killed my cattle; and thus passed a winter of sorrow.Again I sowed rye-crops, looking for profit in autumn;And again the rye failed, for again was the early ear frosted.I had men and maid servants no longer. I could not pay land-dues.Bread we had none; bark dried in the oven sustained us.So passed the time; and as long as the milch-kine were spared us,And we had their milk, the bark-bread for us was sufficient.Thus came and went Christmas; and still we lived on, although famished.At length, when returning one morning with bark on my shoulder,I was met on the threshold by strangers—and thus one accosts me:“Friend, either pay that thou owest, or all that thou hast will be seized on.”Amazed, I made answer: “Good sir, yet awhile have thou patience,And I will pay all, Heaven helping! We now are sustainedAlone on bark bread!”Again they turned into the house, no answer vouchsafing,Then hastily stripped from the walls our poor store of household utensils,Seized all that remained of our clothing, and carried them off to their sledge.Weeping, my wife lay, my excellent wife, on her straw bed,Watching in silence the men, and all the while soothing the baby,Which lay on her bosom new-born, and kept up a wailing of sorrow.I followed them out as they bore thence the last of our chattels,As stern in my mood as the pine when his axe at its roots lays the woodman.They cast up the worth of their plunder, and said that it reached notThe half of the sum that they needed. Again spake the bailiff:“Friend,” said he, “this doth not suffice, but thou hast much kine in the cow-shed.”Thus saying, with no more ado, they went on to the straw-yard,Where stood the kine under their shelter lowing for fodder.They loosened and drove them all forth, one after another;Still forcing them on by compulsion, unwilling to leave their old homestead.In this way six cows were secured; the seventh, a starveling,Dead rather than living, they left me. Thus all that I had was distrained on.I spake not; in dreary despondence re-crossing my threshold,And thus from the bed of her sorrow a low voice of misery accosts me;“Look around if thou canst not find aught for my hunger’s appeasing;How sweet were a draught of new milk, for I thirst, and the babe findeth nothing!”Thus spake she; a darkness came over my eyesight, and sorrowingI went to the cow-shed, where stood the lean, famishing creature,And chewed a poor mouthful of rye-straw. I pressed the dry udder,For milk trying vainly, for not a drop answered the pressure.Despairing, yet dreading a failure, yet harder assayed I,And blood flowed, a crimson stream, staining the pail of the milker.As fierce as the mother-bear, struck by the spear of the hunter,Rushed I indoors, and took up a loaf, which I sunderedBy the stroke of the axe, and black flew the bark-fragments round me.One morsel I gave to my wife, saying: “Take it; ’tis all that is left us;Eat, and give suck to the infant.” She took the dry morsel;She turned it about in her hand, looked at it, then pressingThe babe to her bosom, she swooning, fell back on her pillow.I buckled the skates on my feet, and sped in all haste to the neighborWho dwelt nearest to me, and prayed for some help in my sorrowHe willingly gave it, dividing his all as a brother.Again I sped back with a pailful of milk on my shoulder;But on reaching my threshold a cry of sad sorrow assailed me;And entering, I saw by the bedside my two eldest children,Frantic with terror, and trying to waken their mother;But silent and motionless lay she, a ghastly death pallorSpread over her face, and the blackness of night her eyes vailing.This was the crown of our sorrow—bereaved was the beautiful Kangas.And ere long, as if Heaven-abandoned, I left it forever,And, taking my staff in my hand went forth, drawing my childrenOn a light sledge behind me, and wandered gray-headed a beggar.From parish to parish we wandered, and God and good Christians sustained us.But Time doth lighten most sorrows; and now amid strangersMy children are blooming afresh; for myself it contents meIf only my bread I can win, and playing my jew’s-harpCan sit 'neath the trees in the sunshine, and sing like a cricket.* * * * *Translation ofM. Howitt.Johann Ludwig Runeberg,a Finlander.

Kangas lieth in Sioni; ’tis a homestead that scarce has an equal;

Plenteous in wood and in corn-fields, with rich grassy meadows and moorland.

This won my father, in wedding the farmer’s fair daughter;

And here he grew old, like a summer’s eve calmly declining.

From him came the farm unto me; and here, like my father,

I spent the best years of my life, and dwelt like a king amid plenty.

Servants I had; men servants to plow with my oxen;

And maids in the house, too; and children, the joy of their mother

And the hope of my eye, who grew up like olive-plants round us.

Thus sowing and reaping in comfort, from season to season abode I,

Envied by many, but having the good-will of all men.

At length came misfortune, and so put an end to my gladness.

The frost of one night destroyed all my yet unreaped harvest,

Wolves killed my cattle; and thus passed a winter of sorrow.

Again I sowed rye-crops, looking for profit in autumn;

And again the rye failed, for again was the early ear frosted.

I had men and maid servants no longer. I could not pay land-dues.

Bread we had none; bark dried in the oven sustained us.

So passed the time; and as long as the milch-kine were spared us,

And we had their milk, the bark-bread for us was sufficient.

Thus came and went Christmas; and still we lived on, although famished.

At length, when returning one morning with bark on my shoulder,

I was met on the threshold by strangers—and thus one accosts me:

“Friend, either pay that thou owest, or all that thou hast will be seized on.”

Amazed, I made answer: “Good sir, yet awhile have thou patience,

And I will pay all, Heaven helping! We now are sustained

Alone on bark bread!”

Again they turned into the house, no answer vouchsafing,

Then hastily stripped from the walls our poor store of household utensils,

Seized all that remained of our clothing, and carried them off to their sledge.

Weeping, my wife lay, my excellent wife, on her straw bed,

Watching in silence the men, and all the while soothing the baby,

Which lay on her bosom new-born, and kept up a wailing of sorrow.

I followed them out as they bore thence the last of our chattels,

As stern in my mood as the pine when his axe at its roots lays the woodman.

They cast up the worth of their plunder, and said that it reached not

The half of the sum that they needed. Again spake the bailiff:

“Friend,” said he, “this doth not suffice, but thou hast much kine in the cow-shed.”

Thus saying, with no more ado, they went on to the straw-yard,

Where stood the kine under their shelter lowing for fodder.

They loosened and drove them all forth, one after another;

Still forcing them on by compulsion, unwilling to leave their old homestead.

In this way six cows were secured; the seventh, a starveling,

Dead rather than living, they left me. Thus all that I had was distrained on.

I spake not; in dreary despondence re-crossing my threshold,

And thus from the bed of her sorrow a low voice of misery accosts me;

“Look around if thou canst not find aught for my hunger’s appeasing;

How sweet were a draught of new milk, for I thirst, and the babe findeth nothing!”

Thus spake she; a darkness came over my eyesight, and sorrowing

I went to the cow-shed, where stood the lean, famishing creature,

And chewed a poor mouthful of rye-straw. I pressed the dry udder,

For milk trying vainly, for not a drop answered the pressure.

Despairing, yet dreading a failure, yet harder assayed I,

And blood flowed, a crimson stream, staining the pail of the milker.

As fierce as the mother-bear, struck by the spear of the hunter,

Rushed I indoors, and took up a loaf, which I sundered

By the stroke of the axe, and black flew the bark-fragments round me.

One morsel I gave to my wife, saying: “Take it; ’tis all that is left us;

Eat, and give suck to the infant.” She took the dry morsel;

She turned it about in her hand, looked at it, then pressing

The babe to her bosom, she swooning, fell back on her pillow.

I buckled the skates on my feet, and sped in all haste to the neighbor

Who dwelt nearest to me, and prayed for some help in my sorrow

He willingly gave it, dividing his all as a brother.

Again I sped back with a pailful of milk on my shoulder;

But on reaching my threshold a cry of sad sorrow assailed me;

And entering, I saw by the bedside my two eldest children,

Frantic with terror, and trying to waken their mother;

But silent and motionless lay she, a ghastly death pallor

Spread over her face, and the blackness of night her eyes vailing.

This was the crown of our sorrow—bereaved was the beautiful Kangas.

And ere long, as if Heaven-abandoned, I left it forever,

And, taking my staff in my hand went forth, drawing my children

On a light sledge behind me, and wandered gray-headed a beggar.

From parish to parish we wandered, and God and good Christians sustained us.

But Time doth lighten most sorrows; and now amid strangers

My children are blooming afresh; for myself it contents me

If only my bread I can win, and playing my jew’s-harp

Can sit 'neath the trees in the sunshine, and sing like a cricket.

* * * * *

Translation ofM. Howitt.Johann Ludwig Runeberg,a Finlander.

[Pastoral Scene]

ELEGY.

RUSSIAN.

O thou field! thou clean and level field!O thou plain! so far and wide around!Level field, dressed up with every thing,Every thing; with sky-blue flowerets small,Fresh green grass, and bushes thick with leaves;But defaced by one thing, but by one!For in thy very middle stands a broom,On the broom a young gray eagle sits,And he butchers wild a raven black,Sucks the raven’s heart-blood, glowing hot,Drenches with it too the moistened earth.Ah, black raven, youth so good and brave,Thy destroyer is the eagle gray!Not a swallow ’tis, that hovering clings,Hovering clings to her warm little nest;To the murdered son the mother clings,And her tears fall like the rushing stream,And his sister’s like the flowing rill;Like the dew the tears fall of his love—When the sun shines it dries up the dew!Translated byTalvi.

O thou field! thou clean and level field!

O thou plain! so far and wide around!

Level field, dressed up with every thing,

Every thing; with sky-blue flowerets small,

Fresh green grass, and bushes thick with leaves;

But defaced by one thing, but by one!

For in thy very middle stands a broom,On the broom a young gray eagle sits,And he butchers wild a raven black,Sucks the raven’s heart-blood, glowing hot,Drenches with it too the moistened earth.Ah, black raven, youth so good and brave,Thy destroyer is the eagle gray!

For in thy very middle stands a broom,

On the broom a young gray eagle sits,

And he butchers wild a raven black,

Sucks the raven’s heart-blood, glowing hot,

Drenches with it too the moistened earth.

Ah, black raven, youth so good and brave,

Thy destroyer is the eagle gray!

Not a swallow ’tis, that hovering clings,Hovering clings to her warm little nest;To the murdered son the mother clings,And her tears fall like the rushing stream,And his sister’s like the flowing rill;Like the dew the tears fall of his love—When the sun shines it dries up the dew!Translated byTalvi.

Not a swallow ’tis, that hovering clings,

Hovering clings to her warm little nest;

To the murdered son the mother clings,

And her tears fall like the rushing stream,

And his sister’s like the flowing rill;

Like the dew the tears fall of his love—

When the sun shines it dries up the dew!

Translated byTalvi.

This winter weather—itt waxeth cold,And frost doth freese on every hill,And Boreas blows his blastes so coldThat all our cattell are like to spill;Bell, my wife, who loves no strife,Shee sayd unto me quietlye,Rise up, and save cowe Crumbocke’s life—Man, put thy old cloake about thee.He.O Bell, why dost thou flyte and scorne?Thou kenst my cloake is very thin,Itt is soe bare and overworneA cricke he thereon can not renn;Then Ile no longer borrowe nor lend,For once Ile new apparelled bee;To-morrow Ile to towne, and spend,For Ile have a new cloake about mee.She.Cow Crumbocke is a very good cowe,She ha beene alwayes true to the payle,Shee has helpt us to butter and cheese, I trow,And other things she will not fayle,I wold be loth to see her pine,Good husbande, council take of mee,It is not for us to goe so fine—Man, take thy old cloake about thee.He.My cloake, it was a very good cloake,Itt hath been alwayes true to the weare,But now it is not worth a groate;I have had itt four-and-forty yeare.Sometime it was of cloth in graine,’Tis now but a sigh clout as you may seeIt will neither hold nor winde nor raine—And Ile have a new cloake about mee.She.It is four-and-forty yeeres agoeSince the one of us the other did ken,And we have had betwixt us toweOf children either nine or ten;We have brought them up to women and men,In the fere of God I trowe they bee,And why wilt thou thyself misken—Man, take thy old cloake about thee.He.O Bell, my wiffe, why dost thou floute,Now is now, and then was then;Seeke now all the world throughout,Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen,They are cladd in blacke, greene, yellowe, or gray,Soe far above their owne degree—Once in my life Ile do as they,For Ile have a new cloake about mee.She.King Stephen was a worthy peere,His breeches cost him but a crowne,He held them sixpence all too deere,Therefore he call’d the tailor loon.He was a wight of high renowne,And thouse but of a low degree—Its pride that putts this countrye downe—Man, take thy old cloake about thee.He.Bell, my wife, she loves not strife,Yet she will lead me if she can;And oft to live a quiet lifeI’m forced to yield though I bee good-man.Itt’s not for a man with a woman to threepe,Unless he first give o’er the plea;As we began sae will wee leave—And Ile take my old cloake about mee.Anonymous—16th century.

This winter weather—itt waxeth cold,

And frost doth freese on every hill,

And Boreas blows his blastes so cold

That all our cattell are like to spill;

Bell, my wife, who loves no strife,

Shee sayd unto me quietlye,

Rise up, and save cowe Crumbocke’s life—

Man, put thy old cloake about thee.

He.O Bell, why dost thou flyte and scorne?Thou kenst my cloake is very thin,Itt is soe bare and overworneA cricke he thereon can not renn;Then Ile no longer borrowe nor lend,For once Ile new apparelled bee;To-morrow Ile to towne, and spend,For Ile have a new cloake about mee.

He.O Bell, why dost thou flyte and scorne?

Thou kenst my cloake is very thin,

Itt is soe bare and overworne

A cricke he thereon can not renn;

Then Ile no longer borrowe nor lend,

For once Ile new apparelled bee;

To-morrow Ile to towne, and spend,

For Ile have a new cloake about mee.

She.Cow Crumbocke is a very good cowe,She ha beene alwayes true to the payle,Shee has helpt us to butter and cheese, I trow,And other things she will not fayle,I wold be loth to see her pine,Good husbande, council take of mee,It is not for us to goe so fine—Man, take thy old cloake about thee.

She.Cow Crumbocke is a very good cowe,

She ha beene alwayes true to the payle,

Shee has helpt us to butter and cheese, I trow,

And other things she will not fayle,

I wold be loth to see her pine,

Good husbande, council take of mee,

It is not for us to goe so fine—

Man, take thy old cloake about thee.

He.My cloake, it was a very good cloake,Itt hath been alwayes true to the weare,But now it is not worth a groate;I have had itt four-and-forty yeare.Sometime it was of cloth in graine,’Tis now but a sigh clout as you may seeIt will neither hold nor winde nor raine—And Ile have a new cloake about mee.

He.My cloake, it was a very good cloake,

Itt hath been alwayes true to the weare,

But now it is not worth a groate;

I have had itt four-and-forty yeare.

Sometime it was of cloth in graine,

’Tis now but a sigh clout as you may see

It will neither hold nor winde nor raine—

And Ile have a new cloake about mee.

She.It is four-and-forty yeeres agoeSince the one of us the other did ken,And we have had betwixt us toweOf children either nine or ten;We have brought them up to women and men,In the fere of God I trowe they bee,And why wilt thou thyself misken—Man, take thy old cloake about thee.

She.It is four-and-forty yeeres agoe

Since the one of us the other did ken,

And we have had betwixt us towe

Of children either nine or ten;

We have brought them up to women and men,

In the fere of God I trowe they bee,

And why wilt thou thyself misken—

Man, take thy old cloake about thee.

He.O Bell, my wiffe, why dost thou floute,Now is now, and then was then;Seeke now all the world throughout,Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen,They are cladd in blacke, greene, yellowe, or gray,Soe far above their owne degree—Once in my life Ile do as they,For Ile have a new cloake about mee.

He.O Bell, my wiffe, why dost thou floute,

Now is now, and then was then;

Seeke now all the world throughout,

Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen,

They are cladd in blacke, greene, yellowe, or gray,

Soe far above their owne degree—

Once in my life Ile do as they,

For Ile have a new cloake about mee.

She.King Stephen was a worthy peere,His breeches cost him but a crowne,He held them sixpence all too deere,Therefore he call’d the tailor loon.He was a wight of high renowne,And thouse but of a low degree—Its pride that putts this countrye downe—Man, take thy old cloake about thee.

She.King Stephen was a worthy peere,

His breeches cost him but a crowne,

He held them sixpence all too deere,

Therefore he call’d the tailor loon.

He was a wight of high renowne,

And thouse but of a low degree—

Its pride that putts this countrye downe—

Man, take thy old cloake about thee.

He.Bell, my wife, she loves not strife,Yet she will lead me if she can;And oft to live a quiet lifeI’m forced to yield though I bee good-man.Itt’s not for a man with a woman to threepe,Unless he first give o’er the plea;As we began sae will wee leave—And Ile take my old cloake about mee.Anonymous—16th century.

He.Bell, my wife, she loves not strife,

Yet she will lead me if she can;

And oft to live a quiet life

I’m forced to yield though I bee good-man.

Itt’s not for a man with a woman to threepe,

Unless he first give o’er the plea;

As we began sae will wee leave—

And Ile take my old cloake about mee.

Anonymous—16th century.

THE COUNTRY LASSE.

OLD SONG.

Although I am a country lass,A lofty mind I bear-a,I think myself as good as thoseThat gay apparel wear-a.My coat is made of homely gray,Yet is my skin as soft-aAs those that with the chiefest winesDo bathe their bodies oft-a.Down, down, derry, derry down;Heigh, downa, downa, downa;A derry, derry, derry, derry down,Heigh down a derry!What though I keep my father’s sheep—A thing that must be done-a,A garland of the fairest flowersShall shroud me from the sun-a;And when I see them feeding be,Where grass and flowersspring-a,Close by a crystal fountain sideI sit me down and sing-a.Dame Nature crowns us with delight,Surpassing court or city;We pleasures take from morn to night,In sports and pastimes pretty.Your city dames in coaches rideAbroad for recreation;We country lasses hate their pride,And keep the country fashion.Your city wives lead wanton lives,And if they come i’ the country,They are so proud, that each one strivesFor to out-brave our gentry.We country lasses lowly be,For seat nor wall we strive not;We are content with our degree—Our debtors we despise not.I care not for the fan or mask,When Titan’s heat reflecteth;A homely hat is all I ask,Which well my face protecteth;Yet I am in my country guiseEsteemed lasse as prettyAs those that every day deviseNew shapes in court or city.In every season of the yearI undergo my labor;No shower nor wind at all I fear,My limbs I do not favor.If summer’s heat my beauty stain,It makes me ne’er the sicker,Sith I can wash it off againWith a cup of Christmas liquor.From a black-letter copy in the Assigns of Symcocke.

Although I am a country lass,

A lofty mind I bear-a,

I think myself as good as those

That gay apparel wear-a.

My coat is made of homely gray,

Yet is my skin as soft-a

As those that with the chiefest wines

Do bathe their bodies oft-a.

Down, down, derry, derry down;

Heigh, downa, downa, downa;

A derry, derry, derry, derry down,

Heigh down a derry!

What though I keep my father’s sheep—A thing that must be done-a,A garland of the fairest flowersShall shroud me from the sun-a;And when I see them feeding be,Where grass and flowersspring-a,Close by a crystal fountain sideI sit me down and sing-a.

What though I keep my father’s sheep—

A thing that must be done-a,

A garland of the fairest flowers

Shall shroud me from the sun-a;

And when I see them feeding be,

Where grass and flowersspring-a,

Close by a crystal fountain side

I sit me down and sing-a.

Dame Nature crowns us with delight,Surpassing court or city;We pleasures take from morn to night,In sports and pastimes pretty.Your city dames in coaches rideAbroad for recreation;We country lasses hate their pride,And keep the country fashion.

Dame Nature crowns us with delight,

Surpassing court or city;

We pleasures take from morn to night,

In sports and pastimes pretty.

Your city dames in coaches ride

Abroad for recreation;

We country lasses hate their pride,

And keep the country fashion.

Your city wives lead wanton lives,And if they come i’ the country,They are so proud, that each one strivesFor to out-brave our gentry.We country lasses lowly be,For seat nor wall we strive not;We are content with our degree—Our debtors we despise not.

Your city wives lead wanton lives,

And if they come i’ the country,

They are so proud, that each one strives

For to out-brave our gentry.

We country lasses lowly be,

For seat nor wall we strive not;

We are content with our degree—

Our debtors we despise not.

I care not for the fan or mask,When Titan’s heat reflecteth;A homely hat is all I ask,Which well my face protecteth;Yet I am in my country guiseEsteemed lasse as prettyAs those that every day deviseNew shapes in court or city.

I care not for the fan or mask,

When Titan’s heat reflecteth;

A homely hat is all I ask,

Which well my face protecteth;

Yet I am in my country guise

Esteemed lasse as pretty

As those that every day devise

New shapes in court or city.

In every season of the yearI undergo my labor;No shower nor wind at all I fear,My limbs I do not favor.If summer’s heat my beauty stain,It makes me ne’er the sicker,Sith I can wash it off againWith a cup of Christmas liquor.From a black-letter copy in the Assigns of Symcocke.

In every season of the year

I undergo my labor;

No shower nor wind at all I fear,

My limbs I do not favor.

If summer’s heat my beauty stain,

It makes me ne’er the sicker,

Sith I can wash it off again

With a cup of Christmas liquor.

From a black-letter copy in the Assigns of Symcocke.

FROM THE GERMAN.

Sickles sound;On the groundFast the ripe ears fall;Every maiden’s bonnetHas blue blossoms on it—Joy is over all.Sickles ring,Maidens singTo the sickle’s sound;Till the moon is beaming,And the stubble gleaming,Harvest songs go round.All are springing,All are singingEvery lisping thing;Man and master meatFrom one dish they eat;Each is now a king.Hans and MichaelWhet the sickle,Piping merrily.Now they mow; each maiden,Soon with sheaves is laden,Busy as a bee!Now the blisses,Now the kisses—Now the wit doth flowTill the beer is out;Then with song and shout,Hence they go, yo ho!Translation ofC. T. Brooks.Ludwig Holty, 1748–1776.

Sickles sound;On the groundFast the ripe ears fall;Every maiden’s bonnetHas blue blossoms on it—Joy is over all.

Sickles sound;

On the ground

Fast the ripe ears fall;

Every maiden’s bonnet

Has blue blossoms on it—

Joy is over all.

Sickles ring,Maidens singTo the sickle’s sound;Till the moon is beaming,And the stubble gleaming,Harvest songs go round.

Sickles ring,

Maidens sing

To the sickle’s sound;

Till the moon is beaming,

And the stubble gleaming,

Harvest songs go round.

All are springing,All are singingEvery lisping thing;Man and master meatFrom one dish they eat;Each is now a king.

All are springing,

All are singing

Every lisping thing;

Man and master meat

From one dish they eat;

Each is now a king.

Hans and MichaelWhet the sickle,Piping merrily.Now they mow; each maiden,Soon with sheaves is laden,Busy as a bee!

Hans and Michael

Whet the sickle,

Piping merrily.

Now they mow; each maiden,

Soon with sheaves is laden,

Busy as a bee!

Now the blisses,Now the kisses—Now the wit doth flowTill the beer is out;Then with song and shout,Hence they go, yo ho!Translation ofC. T. Brooks.Ludwig Holty, 1748–1776.

Now the blisses,

Now the kisses—

Now the wit doth flow

Till the beer is out;

Then with song and shout,

Hence they go, yo ho!

Translation ofC. T. Brooks.Ludwig Holty, 1748–1776.

FROM THE SPANISH.

I ne’er on the borderSaw girl fair as Rosa,The charming milk-maidenOf sweet Finojosa.Once making a journeyTo Santa MariaOf Calataveño,From weary desireOf sleep, down a valleyI strayed, where young RosaI saw, the milk-maidenOf lone Finojosa.In a pleasant green meadow,'Midst roses and grasses,Her herd she was tending,With other fair lasses;So lovely her aspect,I could not suppose herA simple milk-maidenOf rude Finojosa.I think not primrosesHave half her smile’s sweetness,Or mild, modest beauty;I speak with discreetness.O had I beforehandBut known of this Rosa,The lovely milk-maidenOf fair Finojosa:Her very great beautyHad not so subdued,Because it had left me,To do as I would!I have said more, O fair one,By learning ’twas Rosa,The charming milk-maidenOf sweet Finojosa.Translation ofT. Roscoe.Lope de Mendoza, 1398–1458.

I ne’er on the borderSaw girl fair as Rosa,The charming milk-maidenOf sweet Finojosa.

I ne’er on the border

Saw girl fair as Rosa,

The charming milk-maiden

Of sweet Finojosa.

Once making a journeyTo Santa MariaOf Calataveño,From weary desireOf sleep, down a valleyI strayed, where young RosaI saw, the milk-maidenOf lone Finojosa.

Once making a journey

To Santa Maria

Of Calataveño,

From weary desire

Of sleep, down a valley

I strayed, where young Rosa

I saw, the milk-maiden

Of lone Finojosa.

In a pleasant green meadow,'Midst roses and grasses,Her herd she was tending,With other fair lasses;So lovely her aspect,I could not suppose herA simple milk-maidenOf rude Finojosa.

In a pleasant green meadow,

'Midst roses and grasses,

Her herd she was tending,

With other fair lasses;

So lovely her aspect,

I could not suppose her

A simple milk-maiden

Of rude Finojosa.

I think not primrosesHave half her smile’s sweetness,Or mild, modest beauty;I speak with discreetness.O had I beforehandBut known of this Rosa,The lovely milk-maidenOf fair Finojosa:

I think not primroses

Have half her smile’s sweetness,

Or mild, modest beauty;

I speak with discreetness.

O had I beforehand

But known of this Rosa,

The lovely milk-maiden

Of fair Finojosa:

Her very great beautyHad not so subdued,Because it had left me,To do as I would!I have said more, O fair one,By learning ’twas Rosa,The charming milk-maidenOf sweet Finojosa.Translation ofT. Roscoe.Lope de Mendoza, 1398–1458.

Her very great beauty

Had not so subdued,

Because it had left me,

To do as I would!

I have said more, O fair one,

By learning ’twas Rosa,

The charming milk-maiden

Of sweet Finojosa.

Translation ofT. Roscoe.Lope de Mendoza, 1398–1458.

SONG OF THE PEASANT’S WIFE.

Come, companion, let us hurry,That we may be early home;For my mother-in-law is cross!Only yestreen she accused me—Said that I had beat my husband,When, poor soul, I had not touched him;Only bid him wash the dishes,And he would not wash the dishes;Threw, then, at his head the pitcher;Knocked a hole in head and pitcher;For the head I do not care much;But I care much for the pitcher,As I paid for it right dearly—Paid for it with one wild apple—Yes, and half a one besides.Translated byTalvi.

Come, companion, let us hurry,

That we may be early home;

For my mother-in-law is cross!

Only yestreen she accused me—

Said that I had beat my husband,

When, poor soul, I had not touched him;

Only bid him wash the dishes,

And he would not wash the dishes;

Threw, then, at his head the pitcher;

Knocked a hole in head and pitcher;

For the head I do not care much;

But I care much for the pitcher,

As I paid for it right dearly—

Paid for it with one wild apple—

Yes, and half a one besides.

Translated byTalvi.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways,Beside the springs of Dove;A maid whom there were none to praise.And very few to love:A violet by a mossy stone,Half hidden from the eye!Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky.She lived unknown—and few could knowWhen Lucy ceased to be;But she is in her grave, and oh!The difference to me!William Wordsworth, 1770–1850.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways,Beside the springs of Dove;A maid whom there were none to praise.And very few to love:

She dwelt among the untrodden ways,

Beside the springs of Dove;

A maid whom there were none to praise.

And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone,Half hidden from the eye!Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky.

A violet by a mossy stone,

Half hidden from the eye!

Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown—and few could knowWhen Lucy ceased to be;But she is in her grave, and oh!The difference to me!William Wordsworth, 1770–1850.

She lived unknown—and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and oh!

The difference to me!

William Wordsworth, 1770–1850.

FROM THE “KALENDAR OF SHEPHARDES.”

I know that God hath formed me,And made me to his own likenesse:I know that he hath given to me trulySoul and body—wit and knowledge givis.I know that by right wise true balance,After my deeds judged shall I be.I know much, but I wot not the variance,To understand whereof cometh my folly.I know full well that I shall die,And yet my life amend not I.I know in what poverty,Born a child this earth above.I know that God hath lent to meAbundance of goods to my behoof.I know that riches can me not save,And with me I shall bear none away.I know the more good I have,The loather I shall be to die.I know all this faithfully,And yet my life amend not I.I know that I have passedGreat part of my days with joy and pleasaunce.I know that I have gatheredSins, and also do little penance.I know that by ignorance,To excuse me there is no art.I know that once shall beWhen my soul shall depart—That I shall wish that I had mended me.I know there is no remedy,And therefore my life amend I will!Richard Pynson,16th century.

I know that God hath formed me,

And made me to his own likenesse:

I know that he hath given to me truly

Soul and body—wit and knowledge givis.

I know that by right wise true balance,

After my deeds judged shall I be.

I know much, but I wot not the variance,

To understand whereof cometh my folly.

I know full well that I shall die,

And yet my life amend not I.

I know in what poverty,Born a child this earth above.I know that God hath lent to meAbundance of goods to my behoof.I know that riches can me not save,And with me I shall bear none away.I know the more good I have,The loather I shall be to die.I know all this faithfully,And yet my life amend not I.

I know in what poverty,

Born a child this earth above.

I know that God hath lent to me

Abundance of goods to my behoof.

I know that riches can me not save,

And with me I shall bear none away.

I know the more good I have,

The loather I shall be to die.

I know all this faithfully,

And yet my life amend not I.

I know that I have passedGreat part of my days with joy and pleasaunce.I know that I have gatheredSins, and also do little penance.I know that by ignorance,To excuse me there is no art.I know that once shall beWhen my soul shall depart—That I shall wish that I had mended me.I know there is no remedy,And therefore my life amend I will!Richard Pynson,16th century.

I know that I have passed

Great part of my days with joy and pleasaunce.

I know that I have gathered

Sins, and also do little penance.

I know that by ignorance,

To excuse me there is no art.

I know that once shall be

When my soul shall depart—

That I shall wish that I had mended me.

I know there is no remedy,

And therefore my life amend I will!

Richard Pynson,16th century.

[Pastoral Scene]

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