Chapter VII: Part 7

"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 SHIP CATHARINE.

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.

DON JUAN D'ARMADA.

His Majesty, God guard him, gave order for the fleet

To sail at early daybreak the Turkish foe to meet.

The admiral's ship at midnight fires the signal gun,

And to the quay distracted the maids and matrons run.

Sons and lovers they embrace; they weep with bitter tears;

Their voices break with sorrow; their hearts are swelled with

fears.

On board the busy vessels the noises grow more loud,

The masters and the boatswains rush eager in the crowd,

The captain of each frigate his silver whistle blows,

And on the lofty yard-arms the sailors stand in rows.

The white sails drop and belly out before the swelling breeze;

The white foam curls along the prow; the brave fleet seeks

the seas.

Don Juan held his course before the favoring gale,

At midday to the watchman he gave a roaring hail.

"Get higher to the mast-head!" he shouted strong and loud.

The sailor quickly mounted the thin and shaking shroud.

"Sail ho, sail ho," he shouted, "a mighty fleet's ahead,

Across the whole horizon the line of ships is spread."

A Spanish renegade commanded that proud fleet

Who by his beard had sworn Don Juan to defeat.

Don Juan trusted Christ and made a solemn vow,

The cross within his arms, and standing on the prow.

Oh, Son of Virgin Mary, give us the heart to fight

Those dogs of heathen pride, and scatter them in flight.

The midday sun was bright, when the two fleets grappled

close,

And from the roaring cannon a blinding smoke arose,

The bullets crashed in splinters and shattered plank and

beam.

To the sea the scuppers poured a hot and crimson stream.

The bleeding corpses lay in heaps upon the reeking decks,

With tattered sails and rudderless the ships were drifting

wrecks.

The Turkish captain's galley swung helpless on the sea.

Of its three hundred sailors were left but forty-three,

Along its shattered gunwales the masts and hamper drag,

And weltering in the wake trails its dishonored flag.

The Turkish fleet was beaten, and fled with sail and oar,

Until it reached the harbor and anchored by the shore.

Said the Sultan, "How came this? Who struck this deadly

blow?"

"'T was Don Juan d' Armada, who brought our pennons low."

"I do not mourn the galleys, for I can build me more,

But I regret my sailors that never will see shore.

For Don Juan d'Armada give him the honor due;

He is the king of captains, since he has conquered you."

As in the Spanish romances, there are numerous allusions in the Portuguese ballads to the constant warfare waged with the Barbary corsairs, and the adventures of the unhappy captives who fell into their hands and were reduced to cruel servitude. A favorite theme with the ballad-writers was the rescue of the captive through the means of the Moorish damsel, who had fallen in love with him as she saw him laboring at his tasks. No doubt some such adventures actually happened, and at any rate the theme was one which appealed strongly to the imagination of the popular poets. This one ends with a touch of sentiment which might seem a modern addition, if the authenticity of the whole ballad was not vouched for by so careful a collector as Braga.

THE CAPTIVE.

I sailed from Hamburg port one mom

Upon a bonny caravel.

'T was neither war nor peace at sea,

When pirate Moors upon us fell.

They took me as a slave to sell,

Unto their country of Salee,

But neither Moor nor Mussulman

Would give a silver groat for me.

'T was only a false Jewish dog,

Who wished to have me for his slave,

He made my life a bitter pain,

And beat me like a scurvy knave.

All day I wove esparto grass,

At night I turned the hard corn mill,

A wooden gag between my jaws

Lest of the meal I'd steal my fill.

But fortune brought me a kind dame,

Who pitied the sad life I led,

She sent me from her table rich

Fresh meat and wine and good white bread.

She gave me all things that I asked,

And something I asked not, as well,

Within Jewessa's arms I wept,

But not for her the salt tears fell.

"Christian, you need not weep," she said,

"I know your grief ere it is told."

"But how can I my home regain

Without a single piece of gold?"

"H't is to buy a horse you need,

I 'll give to you my pretty mare,

You need not wait to find a ship,

But take the shallop anchored there."

"Fair dame, 't is not a horse will serve,

For far is Ceuta and Castille,

To take a ship and run away,

Would be your father's slave to steal."

"Oh, take this purse of yellow silk,

My mother dying gave to me,

The golden pieces it contains

Will richly pay your ransom fee.

"And when at home returned again,

To Christian maidens you can say

How Jewish hearts can sacrifice

And show a deeper love than they."

As thus she spoke, the master came.

"Oh, master," said I, "God be praised,

Good news has come across the sea,

My friends the ransom price have raised."

"Ah, Christian, what is that you say,

Many cruzadoes it will need.

Who gives you enough of gold

To pay the heavy ransom's meed?"

"My sisters twain have sent me part,

The other I had kept in store.

An angel has brought me the gold,

An angel bright from heaven's door."

"Hearken, Christian, change your faith, '

And you shall wed my daughter dear,

My goods and wealth shall all be thine,

And joy and peace surround you here."

"I will not be a cursed Jew,

Nor heathen Turk of grace denied,

Nor will I change for all your wealth

The faith of Jesus crucified."

"Why are you pale, Rachael, my girl,

Beloved child, tell me the truth;

Have you been brought to shameful harm

By this accursed Christian youth?"

"Oh, let the Christian youth go free,

For his amend I have no claim,

If my flower of love he's had,

I gave it, and he 's not to blame."

He shut her in a dungeon tower,

Which he with heavy stone blocks made,

That the base Moors might never know

That shame had touched a Jewish maid.

Oh, mandolin, my mandolin,

Rest silent hung upon the wall,

My longing love across the sea

Is borne away beyond recall.

The Faithful Paladin has a more tragical ending for the captive. The ballad had its origin in the province of Algarve, but there are several variants in Portuguese as well as similar ballads in Spanish. Calderon has made the theme the subject of a drama under the title of The Constant Prince, relating to the captivity and sufferings of Don Fernando, heir to the throne of Portugal, who was captured by the Moors in 1438,

THE FAITHFUL PALADIN.

Adventured in a Moorish land,

A paladin, heartstrong and brave,

Fell into Miramolin's hands,

To serve him as a captive slave.

The Moorish king a daughter had,

More white and fair than jasmine flower.

Her eyes with sparkling light were glad,

And youth and bloom her beauty's dower.

To Safim as she looked one day

Celima saw the captive knight,

With pensive gaze turned far away,

And sadness in his empty sight.

The touch she felt within her heart

She sought with shamefaced care to hide,

None guessed the wound that gave the smart,

Or heard her weeping when she cried.

Since then her pastimes had no zest,

Nor could she even peace regain,

The longing love that filled her breast

Grew every day a deeper pain.

Upon the terrace hours and hours

She sat and watched the slave below

Dig at his task among the flowers,

In summer sunshine's burning glow.

At last her longing broke her pride,

She told her passion on her knees.

He silent stood, and only sighed

For her he loved beyond the seas.

Faithful and true to his fond love,

It fenced his heart with triple shield,

Not all Celima's charms could move

A more than pitying grace to yield.

"My gold and jewels shall be thine,

If only you but wish it so,

And with your freedom give me mine;

Tell me, Christian, yes or no."

"I wish no jewels from your hand,

Or aught that may belong to thee,

Some one will come from my far land,

And for my ransom pay the fee."

"Then let me be your humble slave

To serve you wheresoe'er you go.

No better fortune can I crave,

Tell me, Christian, yes or no."

"My humble slave you must not be,

A better fortune is your due;

How came your love to fix on me,

Who have no heart to give to you?"

"My God and father I 'll forswear,

And only yours will seek to know;

Every curse of heaven I 'll dare,

Tell me, Christian, yes or no."

"Your love and riches tempt me not.

Both love and riches wait for me.

Accursed be the fatal lot

That brought me o'er the sad, salt sea.

''I spurn a soul that turns to God,

A heart for me that suffers pain.

Be happy in the paths you've trod,

And love a youth who loves again."

When these sad words the captive said,

With sudden wrath she turned away.

In seven days the knight was dead.

Was it her deed? No one can say.

The epoch of the Crusades is beyond the limit of the popular ballads which have been preserved, although it is probable that they may have had their foundation in originals of that date. The story of the return of the spouse from the Holy Land, and his making himself known after various trials of his wife's fidelity, is a common one in the ballads of all European nations, and is of a character to appeal to the dramatic instincts of the popular poets. Close resemblances to the ballad of The Fair Princess can be found in German, French, and Spanish popular poetry, and the theme itself of course dates back to the return of Ulysses, and to the ballads which were the origin of the Odyssey.

THE FAIR PRINCESS.

The princess sat in her garden fair;

With a golden comb she combed her hair.

She raised her eyes to the azure bay.

A brave fleet bore in with pennons gay.

"Good captain, say, in the Holy Land

Have you seen my spouse with his brave band?

"In Holy Land is many a knight.

With what point device was he bedight?"

"His steed bore saddle of silver gilt

The cross of Christ was his gold sword hilt."

" A knight with these I saw bravely fall

In fierce assault on a city's wall."

"A wretched widow I have become

To mourn and weep in a ruined home,

I have three daughters, lovely and sage,

But spouseless and weak in orphanage."

"What gift to him who returns your spouse?"

"All the gold and silver in the house."

"Of gold and silver I have no need,

Some other guerdon must be my meed."

"I have three great mills; all shall be thine.

They grind white wheat and benzoin fine,

The delicate flour, so finely wrought,

The royal stewards have always sought."

"For your three mills I have no desire,

Some other reward must pay my hire."

"My roof tile of gold and ivory."

"Your gold and iv'ry tiles are not for me."

"My daughters fair, you shall have them all;

Two to serve you in your banquet hall;

The third and fairest shall be your bride,

In love's nest to slumber by your side."

"Princess, your fair daughters count for nought,

A costlier gift is in my thought."

"I have nothing more to offer thee;

No other gift can you ask of me."

"But I only ask, and you can spare

The simple gift of your body fair."

"A fouler insult knight ne'er gave.

Haste, vassals, and scourge this loathly knave."

"The wedding ring with diamonds bright,

We broke in twain on our bridal night.

Where is the half you have kept so dear?

The other half you can see it here."

"How many tears you have made me shed!

How slow the lingering years have fled!

What pains and griefs lie in your debt!

When bliss like this cannot forget."

The ballad of Dom Duardos and Flerida has an antique flavor in its simplicity and indefiniteness, as in its element of imaginative poetry, which would lead to a belief in its ancient origin, dating beyond the acquirement of more accomplished art in the popular poets. A similar ballad is to be found in the Castilian.

DOM DUARDOS AND FLERIDA.

'T was in the month of April,

The day before May day,

When roses red, and lilies white,

Are blooming bright and gay.

The night was calm and cloudless,

With golden stars arrayed,

The Infanta, fair Flerida,

In her wide garden strayed.

"God guard you, tender flowers,

Great joy you've given me;

I go to a strange land;

Such is my fate's decree.

"If my father seeks me,

He who loves me well;

Tell him that love has drawn me

Within its fatal spell.

"Tell him that fateful love

Has seized me in its hold;

I know not where I go,

And none to me has told."

Then Dom Duardos spoke:

"Oh, weep not so, my dear,

In the great realm of England

Are fairer things than here.

"There are more limpid streams,

And gardens yet more fair.

A thousand flowers blooming,

And scenting all the air.

"Three hundred maids shall serve,

And all of noble strain,

And palaces of silver,

Where you shall nobly reign.

"With emeralds of green,

And finest Turkish gold,

Upon the shining walls

The story shall be told

"How, to do you honor,

I fought Primaleon.

I did not fear his strength,

When your bright glances shone."

When fair Flerida heard,

She wiped her tears away.

And hand in hand they went

To where his galleys lay.

The fifty galleys brave

Moved out upon the deep,

And to their chiming oars

Flerida fell asleep,

In Dom Duardos' arms,

Whose heart with joy did leap.

Know all men that are born,

How sure is fate's decree,

From neither love nor death

Can mortal man be free.

Ballads on the subject of the slaying a would-be ravisher with his own arms are common in popular poetry, and striking examples are found in Scotch, French, and Spanish. There are several variants in Portuguese of The Pilgrim Maid, but the best is that furnished by Almeida Garrett.

THE PILGRIM MAID.

Adown the lofty mountain green

The pilgrim maid descends:

No fairer and no purer maid

To sacred station wends.

Her long robe catches in the thorns,

That strew the grassy mat,

Her lovely eyes are downward cast,

And hidden by her hat.

A knight pursues her footsteps fast,

With evil in his eyes,

But he can hardly reach her side,

Though his best speed he tries.

At last he's caught her, as she stops

Beside the olive tree,

That at the holy hermit's door

Stands fair and tall to see.

She leans against the sacred wood,--

"By God and Saint Marie,

This holy place should be my guard,

Oh, do no wrong to me."

The false knight was too base of heart

To feel God's sacred grace.

He throws his arms around her form

In strong and fierce embrace.

In mad and furious wrestle,

Their struggling arms are wound;

The maiden's strength is crushed by his:

She's cast upon the ground.

But as she falls she pulls the dirk,

That in his belt she spies;

She strikes it deep to his false heart,

And out the black blood flies.

"Oh, pilgrim maid, I beg and pray

By God and Saint Marie,

Tell not of my dishonored death,

Or how you've punished me."

"I 'll tell the tale in your own land,

And in mine vaunt it too,

How such a villain, false and base,

With his own blade I slew."

She pulls the cord that swings the bell;

It makes a solemn din.

"Oh, hermit, pray that God may save

This soul that dies in sin,

And grant a grave in holy ground
His body to lie in."

The Portuguese ballads, which relate to domestic tragedies, without reference to historic events, are numerous, and very frequently of a high order of merit. They have the characteristics of folkpoetry in their dramatic interjections and irregularities, but often have a consistency and strength not found in the more romantic ballads. The Death-Bed Marriage is a specimen of this class.

THE DEATH-BED MARRIAGE.

From the frontier of Castille the bitter news has flown,

The brave Dom Juan is dying; how his dear love will moan;

Three doctors grave were summoned, the most renowned for

skill,

If they to life restore him gold will their purses fill.

The youngest two declared that the malady was slight;

But when the elder entered he saw with clearer light.

To the dying man he said, "You've but three hours to live,

To solemn thoughts and duties that short time you should

give.

"One will serve to make your will, and purge your burdened

soul,

One is for the sacrament, the church's sacred dole;

The third and last shall serve you, while tolls the passing bell

To see your best beloved, and say a last farewell."

While these sad words gave warning, fair Isabel stood by.

He turned to look upon her, with death mist in his eye.

"You have done well, my treasure, my death to look upon;

I 'll pray the Virgin Mary to heal the wrong I've done."

While thus he spoke in anguish, there came his mother dear,

"My darling son, what ails you, why is your soul in fear?"

"Oh, mother, I am dying; I have not long to last;

Three hours to live they gave me, and one's already past."

"Son of my womb, consider, with death's hand on you laid,

Have you no debt of honor to pay some noble maid?"

"Yes, mother, to my anguish I owe such debt of shame;

That God may not in judgment condemn my soul to flame!"

"It is to Dona Isabel I owe that shameful debt;

But a thousand cruzadoes a spouse for her will get."

"No gold nor silver money will pay for honor lost;

Thy cruzadoes are worthless as leaves the wind has tost."

"I 'll leave her to the doctors that they no skill may spare,

And you, my darling mother, will have her in your care,

A city for her dowry the day that she shall wed--

If any man refuse her, the axe shall have his head."

"The honor of a maid is not paid or bought with land,

Wed her, well-beloved, with your cold and dying hand,

That she may be your widow, and bear an honored name,

And though she weeps with sorrow it will not be for shame."

The ballad of Dom Aleixio, of which there are several versions, has a lightness of touch in the description of the masquerading maid, which is not often found in the popular ballads, although the conclusion is sufficiently tragic.

DOM ALEIXIO.

We are three sisters, young and gay,

Our cheeks and eyes the likeness show;

In broidering we spend the day,

Or teach each other how to sew.

The youngest, in her youth elate,

The fancy took, one summer night,

To pass the orange garden gate,

With two flambeaux to give her light.

She wore a pretty page's suit,

That showed her shape so trim and neat;

In light, fair hands she held a lute,

And colored shoes adorned her feet.

She strutted up and down the road,

With mimic of a martial stride.

"Fair maidens here have their abode;

Which of the three shall be my bride?"

Upon the balcony we leant,

And laughed to see her gallant guise;

At length the torches' flame was spent;

The moon had risen in the skies.

As to the gate her way she took

When all her sportive tricks were done,

She saw with sudden startled look

A hermit on a bench of stone.

"Father, what do you here?" she cries.

He answered not, but stood upright;

So tall his stature seemed to rise,

The stoutest heart would feel affright.

"If you 're a demon, as you seem,

This sacred cross bids you avaunt.

If your lost soul you would redeem,

The holy priest shall masses chant."

"I'm not an imp from hell's domain;

The holy cross I do not fear;

I'm not a soul that waits in pain,

For a redeeming mass to hear.

"But Dom Aleixio's ghost am I

To save you from a deadly strife;

There seven men in ambush lie,

With naked swords to take your life."

"Indeed! then by the living God,

And by the Virgin Mary's grace,

Were they twice seven, on the sod

I would not yield a foot of space.

"Come on, come on, you sneaking band,

And show your valiance in the light;

With good sword in each valiant hand,

See, mine is ready for the fight.

"If weaponless is one of you,

To him my own sword I will lend;

With this good dagger, keen and true,

I can right well my life defend."

As thus she spoke these words of pride,

The hermit off his robe did throw;

She snatched the dagger from his side,

And pierced his heart with deadly blow.

"Oh, who has slain my lover true,

That lies before me on the ground?"

"'T was you, my lady, only you

Had fateful power to give the wound."

Rise up, Maria, from your knees,

In vain in prayer your hands are crost,

The sobbing of the orange trees

Bewails your soul, forever lost.

The ballad of Dom Pedro Menino was found by Signor Braga in the Azores islands, and is by him attributed to an actual historical event, the marriage of Dom Pedro Nino, a simple knight, to the infanta Beatrixe of Portugal; but, notwithstanding the similarity of names, it must be considered as at least doubtful.

DOM PEDRO MENINO.

The marquis had three gallant sons,

Each one was handsome, brave and tall;

The king commanded them to come,

And serve as pages in his hall.

The first put on the royal robe;

The next the ribboned shoe-strings tied;

The third and youngest of the three

His prentice hand as barber tried.

The princess saw his blooming face,

And smiled on him with loving eye;

The King was told the shameful thing,

And swore the daring page should die

He cast him in a dungeon cell,

Within a tower great and strong.

While waiting there the fatal day,

A huntsman chanced to pass along.

He saw Dom Pedro, as he passed.

"Cousin, what do you there?" said he.

The prisoner answered through the grate,

"I'm destined for the gallows tree.

"To-morrow morn I'm doomed to die,

And to the ravens shall be fed,

All for a simple word of love

That to the princess I had said."

The huntsman to the marquise goes,

"I bring you news of woe and scorn,

Dom Pedro is condemned to die,

As sure as comes to-morrow's morn."

The marquise mounted a fleet steed,

And all her servants followed on,

Their mantles hung upon their arms,

They had not time their cloaks to don.

"What do you in a prison cell?"

"I'm doomed to the black gallows tree,

Because I kissed with love words light

The royal maid, who smiled on me."

"Come, take your sweet-voiced mandolin,

And sing in tune the while you play

The gentle song your father made

In honor of St. John's fair day."

Is such a woman from God's hand?

Her heart is harder than a stone.

Her son must die at morning's light;

She bids him sing in joyous tone.

"O, what a lovely day,

The bright day of St. John

When youths and maidens sweet

Their shining garments don;

They smile as hand in hand,

They move with dancing feet,

Some bearing blushing roses,

And some the basil sweet.

How sad it is for me

In prison cell to lie,

And never see the sun

That sparkles in the sky."

The King, who rode his courser white,

That he might view the royal chase,

Reined in his steed and loitered there

With silent wonder in his face.

"What voice divine is that I hear,

That fills the air with melody?

Is it the angels in the sky,

Or magic sirens in the sea?"

"It is no angel in the sky,

Nor magic siren in the sea,

It is Dom Pedro in the tower,

Condemned to die for love of me.

I'd wish to have him for my spouse,

If that the King would set him free."

"Bid the jailer hasten there;

Take off his chains and let him go.

Take him, daughter, for your spouse,

Since God himself has wished it so."

The ballad of Count Nillo may perhaps be attributed to the same real or imaginary origin as the preceding on account of some similarity in the name and the language, although the denouement is different. The trees which spring from the tombs of the unfortunate lovers and unite their branches is one of the most familiar images in folk-poetry, and hardly any collection of national ballads is without an example.

COUNT NILLO.

Count Nillo in the river halts to bathe his weary steed;

While the thirsty stallion drinks the Count sings loud and

high;

The evening shade had darkened down; the King's sight

was not clear:

The Infanta asked her heart if she would laugh or cry.

"Keep silent, daughter! hearken! What sweet song do you

hear?

Is it a heavenly angel, or siren of the sea?"

"It is no heavenly angel's song, or siren's magic voice,

But Nillo, the Count Nillo, who comes to marry me."

"Who speaks of the Count Nillo, who dares to breathe his

name?

That traitor who defied me, and whom I have exiled."

"The fault is mine alone; I could not live without him,

Oh, pardon the Count Nillo, pardon your only child!"

"Silence, dishonored daughter, let me not see your shame,

Before the morning lightens, the Count shall lose his head."

"Let the headsman be prepared to take my life likewise,

And the sexton dig a grave wide-for a double bed."

The mournful bells are ringing; for whose death do they

knell?

Count Nillo has been slain; the Infanta's soul has flown;

The body of Count Nillo was buried in the porch,

The Infanta laid to rest before the altar throne.

A cypress and an orange sprang from these lovers' graves,

They grew and leaned together, and with their branches

kissed.

The King in savage anger» bade axemen cut them down,

But from their severed trunks arose a heavenly mist.

From his cloud came a pigeon, from her cloud a ringdove,

They flew before the King at his table as he ate.

"Accursed be the loves that thus mock me to my face,

And neither life nor death has power to separate."

HUNGARIAN FOLK-SONGS.

|There is a Hungarian proverb which says, "The Magyar amuses himself by weeping." There is an underlying element of melancholy in this proud and high-spirited race, and its susceptibility to sadness is manifest in its folk-poetry as in its remarkable and powerful national music, which has for the fine ear a note of lamentation beneath its fiery tone. This is not singular, for the folk-songs of almost every nation have this pervading element to a greater or less degree, characterized by shades of temperament and national and historical influences, and showing that the minds of primitive peoples were most deeply affected by the woes of life rather than its joys, and the disappointments rather than the successes of passion, which express themselves in poetry. The aspects of nature, particularly the loneliness of vast plains such as exist in Hungary, and the enforced pensiveness of the shepherd life, exercise a powerful influence in giving a melancholy tinge to popular poetry, and in its melody and in its thought it breathes the note of the rain-laden breeze that sighs across the vast expanse, and the lights of whose magic sunshine are rather of sadness than exhilaration. Like all primitive poetry, born in times of strife and a disorganized and turbulent condition of society, the Magyar ballads deal with violent passions and bloodshed, and the brigands, who were rather military outlaws than common robbers, are the popular heroes, and appeal to the peasant imagination as the embodiments of the revolt of the people against the tyranny of the rich and powerful. But, in spite of their exploits, the gallows always waits for them, and the ballads end with the dismal spectacle of the body swinging in the wind on the deadly tree, while in the midst of their carousings the note of sadness and the foreboding of certain fate constantly intrudes. The Magyar brigand ballads have a much deeper element of poetry and passion than is to be found in the coarse humor and vulgar trickery of the English Robin Hood ballads, and express a finer and more delicate fibre of national feeling. The prevalent characteristics of Magyar folk-poetry are, however, the same as those of the higher standard of popular ballads, and were produced by similar influences, and in similar condition of mind. There is the same vigor of expression and strength of natural imagery, the same abruptness and disconnection in the construction in which dramatic dialogue is interjected into description with a perfect faith in the hearer's comprehension, the same naïveté and freshness of language, and the same simplicity and passion of thought. Those striking coincidences in subject and form of expression which are noted, to the wonder and bewilderment of the students of folk-poetry and folk-tales, in the most widely diverse nations, and which would almost lead to the belief in a common origin and derivation, or to some means of intercommunication yet unknown, are to be found in the Magyar ballads, connecting them with the common stock. In the specimens which follow, the ballad of Poisoned Janos is almost exactly similar in construction and refrain to the Scotch ballad of Lord Randal:--

"O, where hae ye been, Lord Randal, my son,

O, where hae ye been, my handsome young man?"

"I hae been to the wild-wood; mother, make my bed soon,

For I'm wearie wi hunting, and fain wald lie down!"--

with the substitution of the "crab with four feet" for the "eels boiled in broo"--the conventional poisoned dish. The same ballad in substance and form of expression, with the same devising of property to friends and the same bestowal of a curse upon the murderess, is to be found in Danish, German, Dutch, Swedish, Spanish, Italian, and other European folk-poetry, and may yet be discovered in Africa and the South Seas. The circumstance of the infant speaking from the cradle, giving warning of the faithlessness of his mother in Barcsai is common in the folk-ballads of many nations, and the incident of a bird's singing ill-news, the request of a dead man for a peculiar kind of coffin and a favorite burial place, and the growing together of flowers from the graves of a loving couple, are almost universal features in popular poetry; and the rejection of the body of a murdered man by a stream is also familiar. The griefs and sorrows over mortality, the laments of disappointed love, the woes of lonely old age, the remorse for sin, and the fierce passions of jealousy and revenge are common to human nature, and are interpreted in the same language the world over, whether in civilization or barbarism.

In regard to the versions which follow, it is needless to state the difficulty of transferring the original vividness of expression, or preserving the effect of the repetitions and other peculiarities of primitive poetry in the conventional fetters of modern verse and rhyme. The first ballad, Barcsai, is given in a literal translation in order that these forms and turns of expression may be appreciated. The others have been rendered as literally and with as much of the original flavor as possible, but with a consciousness that much of the latter has inevitably evaporated. As says M. Jean de Nathy, to whose literal translations into French, Ballades et Chansons Populaires de la Hongrie, I am indebted for my knowledge of Magyar folkpoetry: "For the greater part without rhymes, they abound in repetition of words and parts of phrases, in alliterations and parallelism, called by the poet Arany 'rhymes of thought' which are difficult to render in modern forms of verse."

BARCSAI.

"Go, my master, go to Kolozvar,

To Kolozvar, to the mansion of my father,

And bring me, bring me the great piece of linen,

The great piece of linen, of linen fine that I have had as a

present."

"Do not go, my father, do not go, do not quit your mansion,

For my lady mother, in truth, loves Barcsai."

"Hearest thou, wife, hearest thou what says the infant?"

"Do not believe him, my dear master, the infant is drunken."

He is gone upon the words of his wife,

Upon the words of his wife toward Kolozvar.

Before he had traveled half of the road,

There came to his spirit the words of the little infant,

And immediately he returns toward the mansion,

Toward the mansion. Before his door he halts.

"Open the door, open the door, my lady wife."

"In a moment I will open it, in a moment, my dear, beloved

master,

But first let me put on my every-day garment,

But first let me put on my apron."

"Open the door, open the door, my lady wife."

"In a moment I will open it, my dear beloved master,

But first let me put on my shoes new-soled,

But first let me knot around my head my every-day kerchief."

"Open the door, open the door, my lady wife."

She did not know what to say; to open the door she was

forced.

"Give me, give me, the key to the great chest."

"I cannot give you it, I cannot give you the key of the great

chest,

In the neighborhood I have been; I jumped over the hedge,

And it's there I lost the key of the great chest--

We will find it at the fair blush of morning,

At the fair blush of morning, at the brightening of the earth."

Then he struck so strongly the great painted chest

That he broke it in two halves.

Barcsai fell out and rolled upon the earth.

He took his sword and cut off his head.

"Hearken, my wife, hearken, my wife, hearken,

Of three deaths, which do you choose?

Do you choose that I cut off your head?

Or with your silky locks that I sweep the house?

Or do you choose to watch until the morning,

And serve as a torch to seven wassailers?"

"Of the three deaths I choose

To serve as a torch to seven wassailers."

"My servant, my servant, my very little servant,

Bring me, bring the great pot of pitch.

Bring me, bring me, the great piece of linen,

The great piece of linen, of linen fine, received as a present.

Begin at her head, and to the sole of her feet wrap her,

The fine linen knot around her head.

Begin at her head, and to the sole of her feet cover her with

pitch.

Begin at the sole of her feet and set the whole on fire.

"At her head I will place the Wallach fifer,

At her feet I will place the gypsy fiddler.

Whistle, Wallach, whistle from thy Wallach pipe,

Play, gypsy, play from thy gypsy fiddle,

Whistle with all thy might, play with all thy soul,

That the heart of my wife may be rejoiced."

KURIS PISTA.

"Go, my child, where the maidens spin

Within their chamber fair."

"Ah, mother, I dare not venture in,

For Kuris will be there."

"If he be there, you need not fear,

The young men will thee guard."

The judge's daughter, with glances clear,

Sits in the young men's ward.

Kuris Pista, indeed, was there,

And to the girl drew nigh,

His words he spoke with gracious air,

"The gay dance let us try."

"Oh, let me go, or I shall fall,

And in this place will die."

But Kuris heeded not her call,

And fire lit in his eye.

"Play, gypsy, play more loud and fast,

Play till your tight strings break.

Though feet may fail, the dance shall last

For the mad music's sake."

"Oh, let me go! Oh, let me go!

My treasure, let me loose,

The red blood from my heart does flow,

And fills my soaking shoes."

"I will not loose you till you die,

My treasure and my dove.

Not once but twelve times o'er have I

Been spurned in asking love."

"Oh, mother, open wide the gate,

Of your leaved garden thick,

The young men with a litter wait,

Bearing thy daughter sick.

"Oh, mother, open wide the gate,

Of your rose garden red,

The young men with a litter wait,

Bearing thy daughter dead."

Oh, sorrow has her father dear,

The mother a heartbreak.

They did not heed their daughter's fear

Her lover's rage to wake.

"Since you would not be mine,

No other shall you wed.

My blood shall flow with thine,

One mingled streamlet red.

Our bodies side by side

In one tomb close shall lie,

To God, the glorified

Our souls together fly."

THE MURDERED YOUTH.

They have killed the gallant youth,

For his sixty florins white,

In the Tizta they have thrown him,

For his stallion bay and bright.

The Tizta would not keep him '

In its waves nor let him float,

On the strand a fisher found him

And took him into his boat.

His mother came to wake him,

But her voice he could not hear,

"Rise up, rise up, my gallant son,

Your mother's heart is here."

His father came to wake him,

But his voice he could not hear,

Rise up, rise up, my gallant son,

Your father's house is near."

His sweetheart came to wake him,

But her voice he could not hear,

"Rise up, rise up, my rosemary,

Clasp my neck with arms so dear."

"Oh, tell me, will you make me

A coffin of walnut bright?"

"My darling, I will make you

A coffin of marble white."

" Oh, tell me, will you robe me

In a shroud of lawn's fine stitch?"

"My darling, I will robe you

In a shroud of velvet rich."

"Oh, tell me, if my coffin new

You 'll trim with nails of brass?"

"My darling, on your coffin new

Gold nails shall be thick as grass."

"Oh, tell me, will you lay me

In the graveyard's grassy glade?"

"My darling, I will lay you

In my own rose garden's shade."

"Oh, tell me, will you mourn me,

With three maids to see your tears?

" My darling, I will mourn you

' Until all the wide world hears."

THE THREE BRIGANDS.

Always ranging night and day,

The three brigands bold

Are seeking their prey,

In the forest old.

In the forest old they meet a Greek,

And the Greek they slay,

From his full wagon

Bear booty away.

Always ranging on the way,

The three brigands bold

Reach a roadside tavern's

Sheltering fold.

One cries aloud, "Ho, landlady gay,

Bring in your good wine."

"My daughter shall serve,

And I too am fine."

They eat and drink,

The three brigands bold,

But the youngest thief

Sits pallid and cold,

To himself he says, "My cradle should

A coffin have made.

My infant linen

For a shroud been laid,

And my swaddling cord

My body swayed."

THE BELLS OF TARJA.

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.

THE BETROTHED.

"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."

POISONED JANOS.

"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 food
in Hungarian folk-lore, as the toad is in English and the
spotted 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."

GYURI BANDI.

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.

THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.

"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."

THE THREE ORPHANS.

"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."

BUGA JAKAB.

"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."

THE FAIR ILONA.

"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."