I will get up upon my feet,
To see my sweetheart go through the street,
rushes with impetuosity to break the ring, and generally succeeds in
escaping the bonds that detain her from her imaginary love.
The Swedish ballad of the "Maiden that was sold into Slavery," has a
similar dramatic character. (See an article by Mr. Stephens, on the
Popular Ballads and Songs of Sweden, in the Foreign Quarterly Review for
1840.) Another Swedish ballad, or ring-dance song, entitled, "Fair
Gundela," is, however, more analogous to the above. A girl sits on a
stool or chair within a ring of dancers; and, with something in her
hands, imitates the action of rowing. She should have a veil on her
head, and at the news of her sweetheart's death, let it fall over her
face, and sink down, overwhelmed with sorrow. The ring of girls dance
round her, singing and pausing, and she sings in reply. The dialogue is
conducted in the following manner:
_The Ring._
Why row ye so, why row ye so?
Fair Gundela!
_Gundela._
Sure I may row, ay sure may I row,
While groweth the grass,
All summer through.
_The Ring._
But now I've speir'd that your father's dead,
Fair Gundela!
_Gundela._
What matters my father? My mother lives still.
Ah, thank heaven for that!
_The Ring._
But now I've speir'd that your mother's dead,
Fair Gundela!
_Gundela._
What matters my mother? My brother lives still.
Ah, thank heaven for that!
_The Ring._
But now I've speir'd that your brother's dead,
Fair Gundela!
_Gundela._
What matters my brother? My sister lives still.
Ah, thank heaven for that!
_The Ring._
But now I've speir'd that your sister's dead,
Fair Gundela!
_Gundela._
What matters my sister? My sweetheart lives still.
Ah, thank heaven for that!
_The Ring._
But now I've speir'd that your sweetheart's dead,
Fair Gundela!
[_Here she sinks down overwhelmed with grief._]
_Gundela._
Say! can it be true,
Which ye tell now to me,
That my sweetheart's no more?
Ah, God pity me!
_The Ring._
But now I've speir'd that your father lives still,
Fair Gundela!
_Gundela._
What matters my father? My sweetheart's no more!
Ah, God pity me!
_The Ring._
But now I've speir'd that you mother lives still,
Fair Gundela!
_Gundela._
What matters my mother? My sweetheart's no more!
Ah, God pity me!
_The Ring._
But now I've speir'd that your brother lives still,
Fair Gundela!
_Gundela._
What matters my brother? My sweetheart's no more!
Ah, God pity me!
_The Ring._
But now I've speir'd that your sister lives still,
Fair Gundela!
_Gundela._
What matters my sister? My sweetheart's no more!
Ah, God pity me!
_The Ring._
But now I've speir'd that your sweetheart lives still,
Fair Gundela!
_Gundela._
Say! can it be true
Which ye tell now to me,
That my sweetheart lives still?
Thank God, thank God for that!
The veil is thrown on one side, her face beams with joy, the circle is
broken, and the juvenile drama concludes with merriment and noise. It is
difficult to say whether this is the real prototype of the English game,
or whether they are both indebted to a still more primitive original.
There is a poetical sweetness and absolute dramatic fervour in the
Swedish ballad we vainly try to discover in the English version. In the
latter, all is vulgar, common-place, and phlegmatic. Cannot we trace in
both the national character? Do we not see in the last that poetic
simplicity which has made the works of Andersen so popular and
irresistibly charming? It may be that the style pleases by contrast, and
that we appreciate its genuine chasteness the more, because we have
nothing similar to it in our own vernacular literature.