THE streamlet ripples through the mead, beneath the maple tree;
There came a maid that stream to draw—a lovely maid was she;
From the white walls of old Belgrade that maid came smilingly.
Young Mirko saw, and offer’d her a golden fruit, and said:
“O take this apple, damsel fair! and be mine own sweet maid!”
She took the apple—flung it back—and said, in angry tone,
“Neither thine apple, Sir! nor thee—presumptuous boy, be gone!”
The streamlet ripples through the mead, beneath the maple tree;
There came a maid that stream to draw—a lovely maid was she;
From the white walls of old Belgrade that maid came smilingly.
Young Mirko saw, and proffer’d her a golden brooch, and said:
“O take this brooch, thou damsel fair! and be mine own sweet maid!”
She took the brooch, and flung it back, and said, in peevish tone,
“I’ll neither have thee nor thy brooch—presumptuous boy, be gone!”
The streamlet ripples through the mead, beneath the maple tree;
There came a maid that stream to draw—the loveliest maid was she;
From the white walls of old Belgrade that maid came smilingly.
Young Mirko saw, and proffer’d her a golden ring, and said:
“O take this ring, my damsel fair! and be mine own sweet maid!”
She took the ring—she slipp’d it on—and said, in sprightliest tone,
“I’ll have thee and thy golden ring, and be thy faithful one.”