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?"