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Title: An Anthology of Jugoslav Poetry; Serbian Lyrics
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "An Anthology of Jugoslav Poetry; Serbian Lyrics" ***

(This file was produced from images generously made

  Transcriber's Notes:

  ['c] represents accent over letter "c".
  [vc] represents caron over letter "c".
  [vs] represents caron over letter "s".
  [vz] represents caron over letter "z".

  Corrected mis-numbered footnote anchors.
  Added close quote at end of line 8, poem I ...and others cursing."...
  Removed open quote at beginning of a page break of poem IX.
  Added period to end of poem XXI.
  Added close quote to end of first stanza of poem XXIX.
  Added final period to J. W. W. at end of poem CXXIV.




  [Illustration: Printer's logo]


  All Rights Reserved

  Made in the United States of America
  The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A.


  a = a in father, garden
  e = e in men, envoy
  i = i in tin, ill
  o = o in son, note
  u = u in rule, rumor
  j = y in yoke, yes
  c = ts in cats, lots
  lj = ly in William, million
  dj = dy in endure, verdure
  gj = gy in George
  nj = ny in Kenyon, opinion
  [vc] = tch in watch, catch
  ['c] = ch in culture, literature
  [vs] = sh in ship, shade
  [vz] = zh in azure, seizure
  d[vz] = dzh in Badger, or j in James

  The rest of the letters correspond to the English sounds.


"Give me the making of a nation's songs, and let who will make their
laws," was the maxim of a Scottish patriot. We would prefer to modify
this rule, and say, "Give us the poems which the people make for
themselves, and then we shall obtain a clear insight into the national
character and learn what customs and laws they are likely to accept or
reject." Folk-songs are the intimate expressions of the ideas of the
people. What the comic drama is to the cultured, and the music-hall to
the ill-educated portions of urban population, the popular song has
been, and in some countries still is, to the rural peasantry, a true
exponent of their sentiments, though too frequently inaccurate in
statements of facts. Critics, as is well known, have censured Lord
Macaulay for his indiscriminate adoption of the vulgar and often
malignant rhapsodies sung in the streets of London. But the Russian
_bylina_, collected by Danilov, Rybnikov, Sreznevsky and others, may be
taken as furnishing unimpeachable evidence of the state of Russia during
the invasions of the Mongols and Turks. The Jacobite poems give us the
real feelings of the people of Scotland for nearly an entire century.
The popular and rustic strains which are handed down from the reign of
Henry III have rehabilitated the memory of Simon de Montfort. Moore's
Irish melodies, originally composed for the delectation of English
aristocrats, have been so generally admired in his native land that they
exhibit pretty clear indications of what the Irish patriots would like
to do if they had the power. And the battle-hymn by Rouget de Lisle is
not only popular in France, but has recently been sung by the Russian
bolsheviki when marching to occupy Tsarskoe Selo and other imperial

The songs to which the English form has been given in the following
volume have been taken mostly from Vuk Karad[vz]i['c]'s invaluable
collection: _Srpske Narodne Pjesme_ (Serbian National Songs).
Karad[vz]i['c], of whom the literary world has heard so much, is the
father of modern Serbian literature. He spent many years among the
peasants in collecting the national treasures: ballads, tales, proverbs,
anecdotes and other folklore. Before his time the songs had never been
reduced to written form, and were kept out of reach of the public ear.
He was only able to hear them partly because of a ruse and partly in
secret, when he listened with inexhaustible patience to the girls
spinning, or the _guslars_ (bards) trolling in taverns and at fairs, or
the reapers chanting at their work. In the preface of his first book of
_Srpske Narodne Pjesme_ Karad[vz]i['c] tells us that in Serbia two sorts
of popular poetry exist--the historical ballads, and popular songs of a
character which caused them to be described as _[vz]enske pjesme_
(women's songs) chanted by country folk, both men and women and mostly
in duet. It is the latter, _[vz]enske pjesme_, which having been
translated into English are gathered together in the following
anthology, _Serbian Lyrics_.

Sir John Bowring, who unveiled to his countrymen the rich treasures of
Slavic popular songs in general, is also distinguished by being the
pioneer to point out the Serbian in particular. But the claims, which
we, at the present day, feel ourselves entitled to make on a translator,
are very different from those current in Bowring's time. Correctness and
fidelity are now considered necessary requisites in a good translation,
just as antiquarian exactness is expected in the publication of an old

Jugoslav lyric poetry is divided into several groups, as, for instance,
one grouping contains poems concerning marriage. These songs tell of the
beauty of the bride, of her joy and sorrow before departure from the
home of her parents, as well as her feelings upon other occasions during
wedlock. There are poems belonging to the group of bacchanalian songs,
pronounced during the toast, and resounding with many refrains. Then
there are lamentations (_tu[vz]balice_) which are mostly provincial,
from Montenegro and Dalmatia. They are also accompanied by refrains,
expressing sorrow after the death of some loved one, and extolling the
virtues of the deceased, or the great misfortune felt by those left
behind. All this emotion is described very fitly and in a touching
manner. Further, there are poems commemorating the holy seasons and
"red-letter days," as _sve[vc]arske pjesme_ sung on the _Slava_
celebration of some _svetac_ (saint). To the same grouping belong
Christmas poems hailing the glory of the Christ, and depicting the
customs of that season (_koledo_). Saints, such as Sts. John, George,
Peter, and others, have their own eulogies. There are besides poems
exalting the Holy Ghost (_kralji[vc]ke pjesme_). _Dodole_, which
originated from old customs of heathenism, are sung during the summer
droughts. Others are reapers' songs, mostly sung at _prelo_ time (social
gatherings). There are poems that are connected neither with marriage,
nor death, nor harvests, but which treat of mythological or religious
subjects; they are called _pobo[vz]ne_, describing the spiritual virtues
of the Virgin, or the Christ, or the apostles. Here are also to be found
humoristic and satirical compositions, directed against women, or
especially against monks, widows, and old bachelors. They are as a rule
sprightly songs and piquant, pleasant and witty.

Critics who have written of the Serbian national songs declare that they
are characterized by extreme delicacy both of feeling and workmanship,
and that they are noble in their childlike purity, simple treatment of,
and sympathy with, every phase of natural human experience. But these
Serbian songs have quite a peculiar character of their own. They are
directly, passionately, fiercely human, and rich with poetic sympathy.
Love, glory, sorrow, death--are the themes constantly handled in a
thousand weird and poetic phrases. There is a strong Indian flavor of
the joy of rest in Mother Earth; and again, a keen thirst for the fight
which smacks of the men who lived with Moslems around them. Although
these chants occasionally recall something of the martial lilt of old
Spanish ballads, they have an individual original turn which cannot be
compared with any extant popular poetry. They have the uncanny mystery
of the Celtic tales of love in death, which is very rare.

The love songs of the Jugoslav lands have a dreamy, calm and exalted
sweetness that reminds us of the Alps and the Cevennes. Among these the
Bosnian _sevdalinke_ (love songs of Bosnia) are especially worthy of
remark, for they are full of emotion, yearning and tender passion. The
greater warmth of the songs of Herzegovina and Montenegro is owing more
to the sonorous language than to any superiority in melody. Here are
mostly to be found _tu[vz]balice_. As to Dalmatia, Croatia and Slovenia,
their melodies are chiefly marked by simplicity and a feeling for the
domestic side of life. Ba[vc]ka and Banat, blessed with much open air
and sunshine, possess no love-songs in the strict sense of the term; but
they have _serenade_ and _posko[vc]ice_, although for these there is
little or no original melody. To the light-minded and bright-witted
singers of these provinces imagination is easier than memory.

A country very rich in melody is Serbia. Here one may find a truer and
more intense musical feeling, a stronger love of the soil, and more
sincere devotion to the beauty of nature, especially of spring and
summer, than in any other part of Jugoslavia. The love songs of Serbia
seem to have a special inspiration of their own. We may hear the
shepherds singing in green pastures and among the fir-woods, or in the
silence of the mountains. From the vineyards, from the fair and dances,
and from the daily round of work the strains arise. Everywhere that
youth is seen a poem is heard, and every occupation is accompanied by a

We cannot, however, leave this part of our subject without mentioning
some of the burlesque poems, which the Jugoslavs possess in great
number, partly narrative and partly lyric. The Americans are accustomed
to think of the Jugoslavs and their kinsmen as grave and sombre, or,
when their passions are excited, prone to deeds of tragic violence.
Those who are better acquainted with them know full well that they are
as loquacious and sarcastically sportive in their social gatherings as
any nation, and many of their verses are redolent of these qualities.
They display all the gradations of the comic, from the diverting
simplicity of the innocent confession of an enamoured girl, together
with the ludicrous situation and disappointed vanity of her cheated
lover, up to a strain of bitter satire and merciless irony. Poems marked
by that simplicity which borders between the touching and the humorous
are also represented in this volume. Such is the song, "Trouble with the

    I married last year,
    This year I repent.
    Bad husband have I,
    With temper like nettle:
    My lot I resent.

    The frost kills the nettle,
    But this husband of mine,
    He thinks the frost fine:
    By the stove all day long
    He does nothing but sit,
    And says that the frost
    He minds not one bit!

    In Celovec 'tis market-day,
    'Tis market-day to-morrow;
    I will take my husband there,
    And will either there him change,
    Or else will sell him at the fair.

    Not too cheap I'll let him go,
    Because he was so hard to get;
    Rather than too cheaply sell him,
    Back home again I'll take the man,
    And love him--howsomuch I can!

The western world has already heard of the rich mine of Jugoslav
folk-literature. Nevertheless, comparatively speaking, only a very small
number have been translated into English. The extreme simplicity of
these verses, the peculiar character of the Serbian language, with its
melodiously protracted words, its pompously sonorous sounds, and its
harmonious diffuseness, all render it exceedingly difficult to translate
Serbian lyrics without encountering the danger of making constant
additions; especially when rendering it into a language with so many
monosyllabic words, and so philosophically condensed, as the English.

                   MILIVOY STANOYEVICH.

New York, 1920.

                      TABLE OF CONTENTS

                     POEMS TRANSLATED BY
                       SIR JOHN BOWRING

    CHAPTER                                          PAGE

         I. THE CURSE                                 21
        II. FAREWELL                                  23
       III. THE VIOLET                                24
        IV. SMILIA                                    24
         V. HARVEST SONG                              25
        VI. MAIDEN'S PRAYER                           25
       VII. KISSES                                    26
      VIII. HARVEST SONG                              27
        IX. CURSE                                     27
         X. SALUTATION OF THE MORNING STAR            28
        XI. THE KNITTER                               29
       XII. ROYAL CONVERSE                            30
      XIII. ROSA                                      31
       XIV. THE MAIDEN AND THE SUN                    31
        XV. THE MAIDEN'S WISH                         32
       XVI. THE FALCON                                33
      XVII. DEER AND VILA                             34
     XVIII. VIRGIN AND WIDOW                          35
       XIX. NIGHTINGALES                              36
        XX. THE RING                                  37
       XXI. FRATRICIDE                                38
      XXII. LOVE                                      40
     XXIII. MAPLE TREE                                40
      XXIV. SEMENDRIAN BEAUTY                         41
       XXV. SELF-ADMIRATION                           42
      XXVI. ASSIGNATION                               42
     XXVII. FOOLISH VOW                               43
    XXVIII. VILAS                                     43
      XXIX. LEPOTA                                    44
       XXX. IMPRECATIONS                              45
      XXXI. SECRETS DIVULGED                          46
     XXXII. WISHES                                    47
    XXXIII. LOVER ASLEEP                              47
     XXXIV. EARLY SORROWS                             48
      XXXV. THE YOUNG SHEPHERDS                       49
     XXXVI. THOUGHTS OF A MOTHER                      51
    XXXVII. COUNSEL                                   52
   XXXVIII. DESOLATION                                52
     XXXIX. APPREHENSION                              53
        XL. MILICA                                    54
       XLI. THE CHOICE                                55
      XLII. FOR WHOM?                                 55
     XLIII. LIBERTY                                   56
      XLIV. THE DANCE                                 57
       XLV. ELEGY                                     58
      XLVI. INQUIRY                                   59
     XLVII. DOUBT                                     60
    XLVIII. THE SULTANESS                             61
      XLIX. BETROTHING                                61
         L. CAUTIONS                                  62
        LI. MAIDEN'S CARES                            63
       LII. MOHAMMEDAN SONG                           65
      LIII. MINE EVERYWHERE                           65
       LIV. MAID AWAKING                              67
        LV. MOTHER'S LOVE                             67
       LVI. THE GREYBEARD                             68
      LVII. MOHAMMEDAN TALE                           69
     LVIII. LOVE'S DIFFICULTIES                       71
       LIX. WITCHES                                   72
        LX. PLEDGES                                   72
       LXI. COMPLAINT                                 73
      LXII. SONG                                      74
     LXIII. MOHAMMEDAN SONG                           74
      LXIV. BROTHERLESS SISTERS                       75
       LXV. MISFORTUNES                               76
      LXVI. TIMIDITY                                  77
     LXVII. YOUTH ENAMOURED                           78
    LXVIII. BLACK EYES AND BLUE                       79
      LXIX. THE WIDOW                                 80
       LXX. ALARMS                                    80
      LXXI. FOND WIFE                                 81
     LXXII. UNHAPPY BRIDE                             81
    LXXIII. LAST PETITION                             82
     LXXIV. LOVE FOR A BROTHER                        83
      LXXV. REBUKE                                    84
     LXXVI. MAN'S FAITH                               85
    LXXVII. MAIDEN'S AFFECTION                        85
   LXXVIII. MARRIAGE SONGS                            86
     LXXIX. HEROES SERVED                             89
      LXXX. YOUTH AND AGE                             89
     LXXXI. CHOICE                                    90
    LXXXII. ANXIETY                                   91
   LXXXIII. INQUIRY                                   91
    LXXXIV. FROZEN HEART                              92
     LXXXV. UNION IN DEATH                            92

                     POEMS TRANSLATED BY

    LXXXVI. LOVE AND SLEEP                            93
   LXXXVII. LOVE CONFERS NOBILITY                     95
  LXXXVIII. A SOUL'S SWEETNES                         95
    LXXXIX. REMINISCENCES                             96
        XC. SLEEP AND DEATH                           97
       XCI. IMPERFECTION                              98
      XCII. EMANCIPATION                              99
     XCIII. PLUCKING A FLOWER                        100
      XCIV. A WISH                                   102
       XCV. A SERBIAN BEAUTY                         102
      XCVI. SLEEPLESSNESS                            103
     XCVII. A MESSAGE                                104
    XCVIII. TRANSPLANTING A FLOWER                   104
      XCIX. ISOLATION                                105
         C. FATIMA AND MEHMED                        106

                     POEMS TRANSLATED BY
                      J. W. WILES, M.A.

        CI. MORAVA HORSES                            107
       CII. THE GIRL AND THE GRASS                   108
      CIII. THE SUN AND THE GIRL                     108
       CIV. CURSE AND BLESSING                       109
        CV. THE NICEST FLOWER IN THE WORLD           110
       CVI. THE PRETTY TOMB                          111
      CVII. TODA AND HER FATE                        112
     CVIII. THE VILA                                 113
       CIX. THREE ROSES                              113
        CX. HER DREAM                                114
       CXI. TROUBLE WITH THE HUSBAND                 115
     CXIII. THE FIRST TOAST                          116
      CXIV. THE HOD[VZ]A                             117
       CXV. WOES                                     118
      CXVI. HARD TO BELIEVE                          119
     CXVII. THE CONDITIONS                           119
    CXVIII. PRAYER BEFORE GOING TO BED               120
      CXIX. VISION BEFORE SLEEP                      120
       CXX. PRAYER IN THE FIELD                      121
      CXXI. A CHILD IN HEAVEN                        121
     CXXII. CHRISTMAS                                122
      CXXV. THE HOLY MOTHER                          125
     CXXVI. DREAM OF THE HOLY VIRGIN                 126
   CXXVIII. MOTHER OVER HER DEAD SON                 128
     CXXIX. MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR HER SON              129
      CXXX. GREATEST GRIEF FOR A BROTHER             130
    CXXXII. KOLEDO                                   132
   CXXXIII. A HORSE'S COMPLAINT                      133
    CXXXIV. A DANCE AT VIDIN                         134
     CXXXV. THE PRICE                                135
    CXXXVI. PREFERENCES                              135
   CXXXVII. A BRIDE'S DEVOTION                       136
  CXXXVIII. FIDELITY                                 136
    CXXXIX. A SISTER'S LAMENT                        137

                     POEMS TRANSLATED BY

      CXLI. THOU ART EVER, EVER MINE                 139
     CXLII. SEA MERCHANT                             139
    CXLIII. ANGELA AS WATCHMAN                       140
     CXLIV. A LAD AND HIS BETROTHED                  140
      CXLV. DIREFUL SICKNESS                         141
     CXLVI. ALL AS IT SHOULD BE                      141
    CXLVII. BEAUTY PREENS HERSELF                    141
   CXLVIII. HARVEST SONG                             142
     CXLIX. LONG NIGHTS                              142
        CL. EYEBROW LURE                             143
       CLI. GIRLHOOD                                 143
      CLII. YOUTH WITH YOUTH                         144
     CLIII. COME MY LOVER, TO ME                     144
      CLIV. SIGHS                                    145
       CLV. A BOUQUET OF LITTLE ROSES                145
      CLVI. DREAM INTERPRETATION                     146
    CLVIII. DAWN AWAKENED LAZAR                      148
      CLIX. A DEVILISH YOUNG MATRON                  148
       CLX. GIRL IS ETERNAL POSSESSION               149
      CLXI. JOVO AND MARIA                           150
     CLXII. ROSE TREE                                150
    CLXIII. DARLING'S WRATH                          151
     CLXIV. LAD PIERCED WITH ARROW                   151
      CLXV. NOUGHT BUT KISSES                        152
     CLXVI. UNITED                                   152
    CLXVII. GIRL PLEADS WITH JEWELLER                152
   CLXVIII. WIFE DEARER THAN SISTER                  153
     CLXIX. GREATEST SORROW                          154
      CLXX. YOUTH AND GIRL                           154



  I heard a sprightly swallow say
  To a gray cuckoo t'other day,--
  "Thou art a happy bird indeed;
  Thou dost not in the chimney breed,
  Thou dost not hear the eternal jarring,
  Of sisters and step-sisters warring;
  Their woes and grievances rehearsing,
  Cursing themselves, and others cursing."
  A young step-sister once I saw,
  Foul language at the elder throw;
  "Perdition's daughter! hence depart;
  Thou hast no fruit beneath thy heart."
  And thus the elder one replied:
  "Curse thy perverseness and thy pride!
  Mihailo is a son of thine;
  Now thou shalt bring forth daughters nine,
  And madness shall their portion be.
  Thy son shall cross the parting sea;
  He never shall return to thee,
  But, bathed in blood and wounded, pine!"
  And thus she cursed;--the curse was true;[2]
  Her sister's nine fair daughters grew;
  And madness seized them,--seized them all:
  Mihailo,--far away, and wounded,
  By solitude and woe surrounded,
  I heard him on his mother call:
  "O mother! mother! send me now
  A bandage of that snowy linen
  Which you so thoughtlessly were spinning,
  When curses wander'd to and fro.
  In your rage you wove it,--now remove it;
  Tear it for bandages, as you tore
  Love and affection all asunder.
  Where it was bleach'd thy son lies under;
  With it cover his hot wounds o'er.
  Rend it, mother; and send it, mother!
  May it thy suffering son restore!"

                             S. J. B.



  Against white Buda's walls, a vine
  Doth its white branches fondly twine;
  O, no! it was no vine-tree there;
  It was a fond, a faithful pair,
  Bound each to each in earliest vow--
  And, O! they must be severed now!
  And these their farewell words:--"We part--
  Break from my bosom--break--my heart!
  Go to a garden--go, and see,
  Some rose-branch blushing on the tree;
  And from that branch of rose-flower tear,
  Then place it on thy bosom bare;
  And as its leaflets fade and pine,
  So fades my sinking heart in thine."
  And thus the other spoke: "My love!
  A few short paces backward move,
  And to the verdant forest go;
  There's a fresh water-fount below;
  And in the fount a marble stone,
  Which a gold cup reposes on;
  And in the cup a ball of snow--
  Love! take that ball of snow to rest
  Upon thine heart within thy breast.
  And as it melts unnoticed there,
  So melts my heart in thine, my dear!"

                             S. J. B.



  How captivating is to me,
  Sweet flower! thine own young modesty!
  Though did I pluck thee from thy stem,
  There's none would wear thy purple gem.
  I thought, perchance, that Ali Bey--
  But he is proud and lofty--nay!
  He would not prize thee--would not wear
  A flower so feeble though so fair:
  His turban for its decorations
  Had full blown roses and carnations.

                             S. J. B.



  Sweet Smilia-flowers did Smilia pull,
  Her sleevelets and her bosom full;
  By the cool stream she gather'd them,
  And twined her many a diadem--
  A diadem of flowery-wreaths;--
  One round her brows its fragrance breathes;
  One to her bosom-friend she throws;
  The other where the streamlet flows
  She flings, and says in gentlest tone--
  "Swim on, thou odorous wreath! swim on,
  Swim to my Juris' home, and there
  O whisper in his mother's ear:
  'Say, wilt thou not thy Juris wed?--
  Then give him not a widow's bed;
  But some sweet maiden, young and fair.'"

                             S. J. B.



  Take hold of your reeds, youths and maidens! and see
  Who the kissers and kiss'd of the reapers shall be.
  Take hold of your reeds, till the secret be told,
  If the old shall kiss young, and the young shall kiss old
  Take hold of your reeds, youths and maidens! and see
  What fortune and chance to the drawers decree:
  And if any refuse, may God smite them--may they
  Be cursed by Paraskeva, the saint of to-day!
  Now loosen your hands--now loosen, and see
  Who the kissers and kiss'd of the reapers shall be.[6]

                             S. J. B.



  Beauty's maiden thus invoked the Heavens:
  "Send me down a whirlwind! let it scatter
  Yonder stony tower--its halls lay open!
  Let me look on Ger[vc]i['c] Manoilo.
  If the otter on his knee is playing--
  If the falcon sits upon his shoulder--
  If the rose is blooming on his kalpak."[7]
  What she pray'd for speedily was granted:
  And a storm-wind came across the ocean;
  And the stony tower fell down before it:
  And she look'd on Ger[vc]i['c] Manoilo:
  Saw the otter on his knees disporting:
  Saw the falcon sitting on his shoulder:
  Saw the rose upon his kalpak blooming.

                             S. J. B.



  What's the time of night, my dear?
  For my maiden said, "I'll come"--
  Said "I'll come,"--but is not here:
  And 'tis now the midnight's gloom.
  Lone and silent home I turn'd;
  But upon the bridge I met her--
  Kiss'd her: How my hot lips burned!--
  How forget it--how forget her!
  In one kiss full ten I drew:
  And upon my lips there grew,
  From that hour, a honey-dew,
  As if sugar were my meat,
  And my drink metheglin sweet.

                             S. J. B.



  Lord and master! let us homewards, let us homewards haste:
  Far, far distant are our dwellings--far across the waste.[8]
  Some have aged mothers threat'ning--"Ne'er allow another:"
  Some male-children[9] in the cradle, crying for their mother;
  Some impatient lovers chiding;--dearer they than brother.

                             S. J. B.



  The maiden cursed her raven eyes,
  She cursed them for their treacheries.
  "Be blinded now, to you if heaven
  All that is visible has given!
  If ye see all, ye traitors, say
  Why saw ye not my love to-day:--
  He pass'd my door,--but, truants, ye
  Gave not the gentlest hint to me.
  He had a nosegay in his hand,--
  He wore a gold embroider'd band.[10]
  'Twas made by other hands than mine!
  Upon it wreathing branches twine:
  May every branch embroidered there,
  A miserable heart-wound bear;--
  Upon each branch, may every leaf
  Bring and betoken toil and grief."



  Lo! the maiden greets the day-star! "Sister!
  Sister star of morning! well I greet thee;
  Thou dost watch the world from thine uprising
  To thy sinking hour.  In Hercegovina,
  Tell me didst thou see the princely Stephan?
  Tell me, was his snowy palace open,
  Were his steeds caparisoned, and ready;
  And was he equipp'd his bride to visit?"

  Gently then the morning star responded:
  "Lovely sister! beautiful young maiden,
  True, I watch the world from my uprising
  To my setting;--and in Hercegovina
  Saw the palace of the princely Stephan;
  And that snowy palace was wide open,
  And his horse was saddled, and was ready,
  And he was equipp'd his bride to visit:
  But not thee--not thee--another maiden;
  False tongues three have whisper'd evil of thee;
  One has said--thine origin is lowly;
  One, that thou art treacherous as a serpent;
  And the third, that thou art dull and dreamy."

  Then the maiden pour'd her imprecations:
  "He who said my origin was lowly,
  Never let a child of love be born him;
  He who called me treacherous as a serpent,
  Round his heart, O! let a serpent wreathe it;
  Through hot summers in his hair be tangled,
  Through cold winters in his bosom nestle;
  He who dar'd to call me dull and dreamy,
  Nine long years may he be worn by sickness,
  And no sleep renew his strength to bear it."

                             S. J. B.



  The maiden sat upon the hill,
  Upon the hill and far away,
  Her fingers wove a silken cord,
  And thus I heard the maiden say:
  "O with what joy, what ready will,
  If some fond youth, some youth adored,
  Might wear thee, should I weave thee now!
  The finest gold I'd interblend,
  The richest pearls as white as snow.
  But if I knew, my silken friend,
  That an old man[11] should wear thee, I
  The coarsest worsted would inweave,
  Thy finest silk for dog-grass leave,
  And all thy knots with nettles tie."



  The king from the queen an answer craves;
  "How shall we now employ our slaves?"
  The maidens in fine embroidery,
  The widows shall spin flax-yarn for me,
  And the men shall dig in the fields for thee.

  The king from the queen an answer craves,
  "How shall we, lady, feed our slaves?"
  The maidens shall have the honey-comb sweet,
  The widows shall feed on the finest wheat,
  And the men of maize-meal bread shall eat.

  The king from the queen an answer craves;
  "Where for the night shall rest our slaves?"
  The maidens shall sleep in the chambers high,
  The widows on mattress'd beds shall lie,
  And the men on the nettles under the sky.

                             S. J. B.



  Under roses slept the maiden Rosa,
  And a rose fell down and waken'd Rosa;
  To the flower-rose, said the maiden Rosa--
  "Rose of mine! O fall, not on the maiden,
  I am in no tune of soul to love thee,
  For a heavy grief o'erwhelms my spirit;
  Youth would have me--but old age hath won me.
  An old bridegroom is a worthless maple;
  When the wind is up it faints and trembles;
  When the rain descends, decay decays it:
  But a young bride, is a roselet budding;
  When the wind is up, its fair leaves open,
  When the rain descends, it shines in beauty,--
  When the sun comes forth, it smiles and glories."

                             S. J. B.



  A maiden proudly thus the sun accosted:
  "Sun! I am fairer far than thou,--far fairer;
  Fairer than is thy sister[12] or thy brethren,--
  Fairer than yon bright moon at midnight shining,
  Fairer than yon gay star in heav'n's arch twinkling,
  That star, all other stars preceding proudly,
  As walks before his sheep the careful shepherd."
  The sun complain'd to God of such an insult:
  "What shall be done with this presumptuous maiden?"
  And to the sun God gave a speedy answer:
  "Thou glorious Sun! thou my beloved daughter![13]
  Be joyous yet! say, why art thou dejected?
  Wilt thou reward the maiden for her folly--
  Shine on, and burn the maiden's snowy forehead.
  But I a gloomier dowry yet will give her;
  Evil to her shall be her husband's brother;
  Evil to her shall be her husband's father.
  Then shall she think upon the affront she gave thee."

                             S. J. B.



  If I had, ah Laso!
  All the emp'ror's treasures,
  Well I know, ah Laso!
  What with these I'd purchase;
  I would buy, ah Laso!
  Garden on the Sava;
  Well I know, ah Laso!
  What my hands would plant there;
  I would plant, ah Laso!
  Hyacinths, carnations.
  If I had, ah Laso!
  All the emp'ror's treasures,
  Well I know, ah Laso!
  What with these I'd purchase;
  I would buy, ah Laso!
  I would purchase Laso,
  He should be, ah Laso!
  Gardener in my Garden.

                             S. J. B.



  The falcon soars both far and high,
  He spreads his pinions in the sky,
  Then from his cloudy heights he lowers,
  And seats him on the city's towers:
  He sees a laughing girl of grace,
  In crystal water bathe her face;
  And looks with open, eager eye
  Upon her neck of ivory:
  White as the snow upon the mountain;
  And there he hears a youth recounting
  His tale of love.--"Now bend thy head
  Upon thy snowy neck," he said;
  "Its whiteness is too bright for me:
  And 'neath it sorrowing heart may be."

                             S. J. B.



  A young deer tracked his way through the green forest,
  One lonely day--another came in sadness;
  And the third dawn'd, and brought him sighs and sorrow:
  Then he address'd him to the forest Vila:
  "Young deer!" she said, "thou wild one of the forest,
  Now tell me what great sorrow has oppress'd thee?
  Why wanderest thou thus in the forest lonely:
  Lonely one day,--another day in sadness,--
  And the third day with sighs and anguish groaning?"

  And thus the young deer to the Vila answer'd:
  "O thou sweet sister! Vila of the forest!
  Me has indeed a heavy grief befallen;
  For I had once a fawn, mine own beloved,
  And one sad day she sought the running water:
  She enter'd it, but came not back to bless me:
  Then tell me, had she lost her way and wander'd?
  Was she pursued and captured by the huntsman?
  Or has she left me?--has she wholly left me?--
  Loving some other deer--and I forgotten.
  O! if she has but lost her way, and wanders,
  Teach her to find it--bring her back to love me.
  O! if she has been captured by the huntsman,
  Then may a fate as sad as mine await him.
  But if she has forsaken me--if, faithless,
  She loves another deer--and I forgotten--
  Then may the huntsman speedily o'er take her."

                             S. J. B.



  Over Sarajevo flies a falcon,
  Looking round for cooling shade to cool him.
  Then he finds a pine on Sarajevo;
  Under it a well of sparkling water;
  By the water, Hyacinth, the widow,
  And the Rose, the young, unmarried virgin.
  He look'd down--the falcon--and bethought him:
  "Shall I kiss grave Hyacinth, the widow;
  Or the Rose, the young, unmarried virgin?"
  Thinking thus--at last the bird determined--
  And he whisper'd to himself sedately,
  "Gold--though long employ'd, is far, far better
  Than the finest silver freshly melted,"
  So he kiss'd--kiss'd Hyacinth, the widow.
  Very wroth wax'd then young Rose, the virgin:
  "Sarajevo! let a ban be on thee!
  Cursed be thy strange and evil customs!
  For thy youths they love the bygone widows,
  And thy aged men the untried virgins."

                             S. J. B.



  All the night two nightingales were singing
  At the window of th'affianced maiden;
  And th'affianced maiden thus address'd them:
  "Tell me, ye two nightingales, O tell me!
  Are ye brothers? are ye brothers' children?"

  Thus the nightingales made speedy answer:
  "Brothers are we not, nor brothers' children:
  We are friends--friends of the verdant forest.
  Once we had another friend--another--
  But that friend is lost to us for ever.
  We have heard that nuptial bliss awaits him;
  And we came the youthful bride to look on,
  And to offer her a golden spindle,
  With the flax of Egypt bound around it."

                             S. J. B.



  The streamlet ripples through the mead, beneath the maple tree;
  There came a maiden 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."

                             S. J. B.



  Between two mountains sank the sun--
  Between two maids the enamour'd one.
  He gave his kiss to one alone;
  The other maid grew jealous then:
  "Most faithless thou of faithless men!"

  She said--and he replied--"Fair maid!
  I fain would kiss thy cheeks of red,
  But thou hast got a bickering brother,
  Who loves to quarrel with another,
  And I no quarrel seek, my love!"

  She hied her to the darksome grove--
  Silent--she turn'd o'er many a rock,
  And look'd 'neath many a broken stock;
  Probed weeds and briars, till she found
  A poisonous serpent on the ground.
  She smote it with her golden ring,
  Tore from its mouth the venomy fang;
  Its poisonous juice her hands did wring
  Into a wine cup--and she sprang
  On swiftest feet to Raduli--

  Her own--her only brother he--
  Her hands the fatal cup supplied--
  He drank the poison--and he died.

  Then sped she to the youth--"A kiss--
  At least one kiss of love for this--
  For this--for thee--I dress'd the cup
  With poison--and he drank it up--
  The brother that thou lov'st not--he
  I poison'd for a kiss from thee"--

  Away! away! thou murd'rous maid!
  Avaunt! Avaunt!--the lover said:
  "What fame--what courage could confide
  In thee--a heartless fratricide."

                             S. J. B.



  The youth he struck on the tambourine,
  And nought was so bright as its golden sheen;
  Of the hair of maidens twined together
  Its strings, which he struck with a falcon's feather.
  The maid look'd down from the balcony,
      And thus to her inner self said she:--

  "O heaven! what a noble youth is he!
  Would'st thou but give this youth to me,
  I would make of the garden-pinks his bed,
  I would lay fair roses under his head;
  And waked by perfume, with what delight
  Would he kiss the maiden's forehead white!"

                             S. J. B.



  O thou brotherly maple tree!
  Wilt thou be a friend to me?
  Be a brother, and a friend!
  To the green grass thy branches bend,
  That I may climb to their highest tip!
  Look o'er the sea, and see the ship,
  Where my lover sits smiling now;
  He binds the turban round his brow,
  And over his shoulders the shawl he flings,
  Which is full of mine own embroiderings.
  For three long years my hands inwove
  Those golden flowers to deck my love:
  The richest silk of the brightest dyes
  I work'd for him, and now my eyes
  Would fain my absent lover see:
  Assist me, brotherly maple tree!
  And tell me, if he thinks of me!

                             S. J. B.



  Lovely maiden of Semendria!
  Hail thee, youth! and health be with thee!
  Hast thou visited the markets?
  Saw'st thou there a sheet of paper?
  Like that paper is my forehead.
  Hast thou ever seen the vineyard,
  Seen the rosy wine that flows there?
  Youth! my cheeks that wine resemble.
  Didst thou ever walk the meadows,
  Hast thou seen the black sloe-berry?
  That black sloe my eyes will paint thee:
  Hast thou wandered near the ocean?
  Hast thou seen the _pijavica_?[14]
  Like it are the maiden's eye-brows.

                             S. J. B.



  A maiden to the fountain went;
  I saw her overhang the place--
  And--she was young and innocent--
  I heard her say with simple grace,
  "Indeed she has a pretty face;
  And if she had a spring-flower wreath,
  How well 'twould sit upon her brow;
  And she might hear the shepherd breathe,
  Yes! thou shalt be my maiden now!
  The shepherd--'midst his fleecy drove,
  Goes like a moon the stars above."




  Maiden! let us share each other's kisses!
  Tell me, tell me, where shall be our meeting,
  In thy garden, or in mine, sweet maiden?
  Under thine, or under my green rose-tree;
  Thou shalt be a rose, my gentle angel:
  I to a fond butterfly will change me,
  Everlastingly o'er thee to flutter--
  On thy flowers untired I will suspend me,
  Living blest upon mine own love's kisses.




  The maiden made a foolish vow:
  "I'll never wear a flow'ret now:--
  No flow'ret shall be ever mine--
  I'll never drink the proffer'd wine.
  No wine I'll drink--no friend I'll kiss
  No, never more--my vow is this."
  So rashly, rashly spoke the maid,
  But soon--ah, soon--repentance said:

    "A flowery garland o'er me,
    How beautiful 'twould be:
    And wine--it would restore me,
      My heart's own gaiety:
    And love might play before,
      If one sweet kiss were free."




  Vi[vs]nja,[15] lovely vi[vs]nja!
  Lift thy branches higher;
  For beneath thy branches,
  Vilas[16] dance delight:
  While Radi[vs]a[17] dashes
  From the flow'rs the dewdrops.
  Vilas two conveying,
  To the third he whispers:
  "O be mine, sweet Vila!
  Thou, with mine own mother,
  In the shade shalt seat thee;
  Silken vestments spinning,
  Weaving golden garments."

                             S. J. B.



  Lepota went forth to the harvest--she held
  A sickle of silver in fingers of gold:
  And the sun mounted high o'er the parched harvest field;
  And the maiden in song all her sympathies told,
  "I'll give my white forehead to him who shall bind
  All the sheaves which my sickle leaves scatter'd behind:
  I'll give my black eyes to the friend who shall bring
  A drought of sweet waters just fresh from the spring;
  And to him who shall bear me to rest in the shade,
  I will be--and for aye--an affectionate maid."

  And she thought that her words were all wasted in air:
  But a shepherd--just watching his sheepfold, was there;
  And he flew, and with sedges he bound all the sheaves;
  And he made her an arbor of hazelwood leaves;
  And he ran to the spring, and he brought the sweet water;
  And he look'd on the face of Beauty's young daughter,
  And he said, "Lovely maiden, thy promise I claim;"
  But the cheeks of the maiden were cover'd with shame,
  And she said to the shepherd, while blushing--"Not so!
  Go back to thy sheepfold--thou wanderer, go!
  For if thou didst bind the loose sheaves, thou hast left
  Thy sheep in the stubble, to wander bereft;
  And if from the fountain the water thou beared'st,
  Its freshness and coolness thou equally shared'st;
  And if thou hast reared up an arbor of shade,
  For thyself as for me it refreshment has made."

                             S. J. B.



  Through the long night a falcon cried,
  "Awake, awake thee! youth! anon
  Thy maiden will become a bride:
  She puts her marriage garments on.
  Awake! awake thee, youth! and send
  A marriage blessing to thy friend."

  "What! shall I be a marriage guest?
  And shall I bid the maid be blest?
  Hear then my marriage blessing hear!
  No son her barren womb shall bear:
  May every bit of bread she breaks
  Bring with it wretchedness and woe,--
  For every drop her thirst that slakes
  May tears of bitter anguish flow!"

                             S. J. B.



  Two lovers kiss each other in the meadows;
  They think that no one sees the fond betrayal,
  But the green meadows see them, and are faithless;
  To the white flocks incontinent they say all;
  And the white flocks proclaim it to the shepherd,
  The shepherd to a high-road traveller brings it
  He to a sailor on the restless ocean tells it,
  The sailor to his spice-ship thoughtless sings it;
  The spice-ship whispers it upon the waters,
  The waters rush to tell the maiden's mother.

  And thus impassioned spoke the lovely maiden--
  "Meadows! of spring-days never see another!
  Flocks! may the cruel ravenous wolves destroy ye.
  Thee, shepherd! may the cruel Moslem slaughter.
  Wanderer! may oft thy slippery footsteps stumble.
  Thee, sailor! may the ocean billows smother.
  Ship! may a fire unquenchable consume thee;
  And sink into the earth, thou treacherous water!"

                             S. J. B.



  O that I were a little stream,
  That I might flow to him--to him!
  How should I dance with joy, when knowing
  To whom my sparkling wave was flowing!
  Beneath his window would I glide,
  And linger there till morning-tide;
  When first he rouses him to dress
  In comely garb his manliness,--
  Then should he weak, or thirsty be,
  O he might stoop to drink of me!
  Or baring there his bosom, lave
  That bosom in my rippling wave
  O what a bliss, if I could bear
  The cooling power of quiet there!

                             S. J. B.



  O nightingale! thy warblings cease,
  And let my master sleep in peace:
  'Twas I who lull'd him to repose,
  And I will wake from his rest;
  I'll seek the sweetest flower that grows,
  And bear it to his presence blest;
  And gently touch his cheeks, and say,
  "Awake, my master! for 'tis day."



  O nightingale! sweet bird--they say,
    That peace abides with thee;
  But thou hast brought from day to day
    A triple woe to me.
  The first, first woe my spirit knew,
    My first, first woe was this,
  My mother never train'd me to
    A lover's early bliss
  My second woe, my second woe,
    Was that my trusty steed,
  Whene'er I mounted, seem'd to show
    Nor eagerness nor speed.
  My third, third woe--of all the worst,
    Is that the maid I woo,
  The maid I lov'd the best--the first,
    Is angry with me, too.
  Then dig an early grave for me,
    Yon whiten'd fields among;
  In breadth two lances let it be,
    And just four lances long.
  And o'er my head let roses grow,
    There plant the red-rose tree;
  And at my feet a fount shall flow,
    O scoop that fount for me!
  So when a youthful swain appears,
    The roses he shall wreathe;
  And when an old man bent with years,
    He'll drink the stream beneath.

                             S. J. B.



  The sheep, beneath old Buda's wall,
  Their wonted quiet rest enjoy;
  But ah! rude stony fragments fall,
  And many a silk-wool'd sheep destroy;
  Two youthful shepherds perish there,
  The golden George, and Mark the fair.

  For Mark, O many a friend grew sad,
  And father, mother wept for him:
  George--father, friend, nor mother had,
  For him no tender eye grew dim:
  Save one--a maiden far away,
  She wept--and thus I heard her say:

  My golden George--and shall a song,
  A song of grief be sung for thee--
  'Twould go from lip to lip--ere long
  By careless lips profaned to be;
  Unhallow'd thoughts might soon defame
  The purity of woman's name.

  Or shall I take thy picture fair,
  And fix that picture in my sleeve?
  Ah! time will soon the vestment tear,
  And not a shade, nor fragment leave:
  I'll give not him I love so well
  To what is so corruptible.

  I'll write thy name within a book;
  That book will pass from hand to hand,
  And many an eager eye will look,
  But ah! how few will understand!
  And who their holiest thoughts can shroud
  From the cold insults of the crowd?[19]

                             S. J. B.



  Lo! a fir-tree towers o'er Sarajevo,
  Spreads o'er half the face of Sarajevo--
  Rises up to heaven from Sarajevo:
  Brothers and half-sisters there were seated;
  And the brother cuts a silken garment,
  Which he holds, and questions thus his sister:

  "Brother's wife! thou sweet and lovely dovelet!
  Wherefore art thou looking at the fir-tree?
  Art thou rather dreaming of the poplar,
  Or art thinking of my absent brother?"

  To her brother thus the lady answer'd:
  "Golden-ring of mine! my husband's brother!
  Not about the fir-tree was I dreaming,
  Nor the noble stem of lofty poplar;
  Neither was I dreaming of my brother.
  I was thinking of my only mother,
  She with sugar and with honey reared me;
  She for me the red wine pour'd at even,
  And at midnight gave the sweet metheglin;
  In the morning milk, with spirit chasten'd
  So to give me cheeks of rose and lily;
  And with gentle messages she waked me,
  That her child might grow both tall and slender."

                             S. J. B.



  "My Misho! tell me, tell me, pray,
  Where wert thou wandering yesterday?"
  "I did not ramble--did not roam;
  A wretched headache kept me home."
  "A thousand times I've said, I think
  No widows love--no water drink!
  But thou, a thoughtless unbeliever,
  Wilt water drink, and get a fever;
  Wilt give to widows thine affection,
  And find remorse, or find rejection;
  Now take my counsel,--drink of wine,
  And be a virgin maiden thine!"

                             S. J. B.



  Gloomy night! how full thou art of darkness!
  Thou, my heart! art fuller yet of sorrow,
  Sorrow which I bear, but cannot utter!
  I have now no mother who will hear me,
  I have now no sister who will soothe me,--
  Yet I had a friend--but he is absent!
  Ere he comes, the night will be departed;
  Ere he wakes, the birds will sing their matins,
  Ere his kiss, the twilight hour will brighten:
  Go thy way, my friend; the day is dawning!

                             S. J. B.



  "Sweet maiden mine! thou blushing rose!
    Sweet, blushing roselet mine!
  For me, what thought of honey flows
    From those sweet lips of thine?"
  'I dare not speak with thee, my dear,
    My mother has forbid me.'

  "Sweet maid! thy mother is not here."
    'She saw me once, and chid me.
  Sir, she is in the garden there,
    Plucking the evergreen:--
  O may her heart like mine decay,
    Like mine decay unseen,--
  Ere love's sweet power has pass'd away,
    As it had never been.'

                             S. J. B.



  Long and lovely are Milica's eyebrows,
  And they overhang her cheeks of roses--
  Cheeks of roses, and her snowy forehead,
  Three long years have I beheld the maiden,
  Could not look upon her eyes so lovely--
  On her eyes--nor on her snowy forehead.
  To our country dance I lured the maiden,
  Lured Milica,--lured her to our dances,
  Hoping to look on her eyes so lovely.

  While they danced upon the greensward, verdant
  In the sunshine, sudden darkness gather'd,
  And the clouds broke out in fiery lightning,
  And the maidens all look'd up to heaven,--
  All the maidens--all, except Milica.
  She still look'd on the green grass, untrembling,
  While the maidens trembled as they whisper'd:

  "O Milica! thou our friend and playmate,
  Art thou overwise--or art thou silly?
  Thus to look upon the grass beneath us,
  And not look up to the heaven above us,
  To the clouds, round which the lightnings wind them?"
  And Milica gave this quiet answer:
  "I am neither overwise nor silly.
  Not the _Vila,_ nor the cloud-upgatherer;
  I am yet a maid--and look before me."

                             S. J. B.



  He slept beneath a poplar tree:
  And three young maidens cross'd the way;
  I listen'd to the lovely three,
  And heard them to each other say:--
  "Now what is dearest, love! to thee?"
  The eldest said--'Young Ranko's ring
  Would be to me the dearest thing.'
  "No! not for me," the second cried;
  "I'd choose the girdle from his side."
  'Not I,' the youngest said--'In truth,
  I'll rather have the sleeping youth.
  The ring, O sister! will grow dim,
  The girdle will ere long be broken;
  But this is an eternal token,--
  His love for me and mine for him.'

                             S. J. B.



  Sweet fountain, that so freshly flows!
  And thou, my own carnation-rose,
  That shines like a shining gem!
  And shall I tear thee from thy stem?
  For whom? my mother? ah! for whom?
  My mother slumbers in the tomb.
  For whom? my sister? who has fled,
  To seek a foreign bridal bed.
  For whom? my brother? he is far,
  Far off, in dark and bloody war.
  For whom, for whom, but thee, my love?
  But thou art absent far above,
  Above these three green mountains,
  Beyond these three fresh fountains!

                             S. J. B.



  Nightingale sings sweetly
  In the verdant forest;
  In the verdant forest,
  On the slender branches.

  Thither came three sportsmen,
  Nightingale to shoot at.
  She implored the sportsmen,
  "Shoot me not, ye sportsmen!

  Shoot me not, ye sportsmen!
  I will give you music,
  In the verdant garden,
  On the crimson rose-tree."

  But the sportsmen seize her;
  They deceive the songster,
  In a cage confine her,
  Give her to their loved one.

  Nightingale will sing not--
  Hangs its head in silence:
  Then the sportsmen bear her
  To the verdant forests.

  Soon her song is waken'd;
  "Woe! woe! betides us,
  Friend from friend divided,
  Bird from forest banish'd!"

                             S. J. B.



  Omar's court is near to Sarajevo;
  All around it is a woody mountain:
  In the midst there is a verdant meadow;
  There the maidens dance their joyous Kolo[20]
  In the Kolo there is Damian's loved one;
  O'er the Kolo her fair head uprises,
  Rises gay and lustrous in her beauty.
  'Midst the Kolo Nicholas address'd her:
  "Veil your face, thou Damian's best beloved!
  For to-day death's summons waits on Damian.
  Half thy face veil over, lovely maiden!"
  Hardly the prophetic words were utter'd,
  Ere a gun was heard from the green forest;
  Damian, wounded, fell amidst the Kolo--
  Damian fell, and thus his love address'd him:
  "O my Damian! O my sun of spring time!
  Wherefore, wherefore, didst thou shine so brightly,
  Thus so soon to sink behind the mountain?"
  "My beloved! O thou rose all beauteous!
  Wherefore didst thou bloom so fair, so lovely,
  And I never can enjoy, nor wear thee?"

                             S. J. B.



  Konda died--his mother's only offspring.
  O what grief was hers the youth to bury
  Far away from his own natural dwelling,
  So she bore him to a verdant garden,
  And 'neath pomegranate trees interr'd him.
  Every, every day she wandered thither:
  "Doth the earth, sweet son, lie heavy on thee?
  Heavy are the planks of maple round thee?"
  From his grave the voice of Konda answers:
  "Lightly presses the green earth upon me,
  Lightly press the planks of maple round me.
  Heavy is the virgins' malediction;
  When they sigh, their sighs reach God's high presence;
  When they curse, the world begins to tremble;
  When they weep, even God is touch'd with pity."

                             S. J. B.



  A maiden sat on th' ocean shore,
  And held this converse with herself:
  "O God of goodness and of love!
  What's broader than the mighty sea,
  And what is longer than the field,
  And what is swifter than the steed,
  What sweeter than the honey dew,
  What dearer than a brother is?"
  A fish thus answer'd from the sea:
  "O maid! thou art a foolish girl.
  And heaven is broader than the sea;
  The sea is longer than the field;
  The eye is swifter than the steed;
  Sugar more sweet than honey dew;
  Dearer than brother is thy love."




  Three young travellers travell'd forth to travel:
  On their travels met a lovely maiden:
  Each will give the lovely maiden a present:
  One presents her with a fresh-pluck'd apple:
  One presents her with _bosiljak_[21] flowering:
  One a gold ring for the maiden's finger.
  He who gave the maiden the _bosiljak_
  Said, "The maid is mine--I claim the maiden."
  He who gave the maid the fresh-pluck'd apple
  Said, "The maid is _mine_--I claim the maiden."
  He who gave the gold ring to the maiden
  Said, "We'll go and seek the Judge together:
  He shall say to whom belongs the maiden."

  So they went and sought the Judge's presence:
  "Judge, thou honourable, judge between us:
  We three travell'd forth together,
  And we met a maiden in our travels,
  And we gave her--gave her each a present:
  One of us a green and fresh-pluck'd apple:
  One presented her _bosiljak_ flowering;
  And the third a gold ring for her finger:--
  Now decide to whom belongs the maiden."

  Thus the honourable judge decided:
  "We present _bosiljak_ for its odour:
  As a pledge of love we give an apple:
  But to give a ring is a betrothing;--
  He who gave the ring must have the maiden."

                             S. J. B.



  Listen! I hear a cry, a cry!
  The bells are ringing lustily;
  And the hens are cackling all in riot.
  No! no! no! the bells are quiet;
  The hens at rest with one another:
  'Tis the sister calls the brother:
  "Brother! I am a Moslem slave!
  Tear me from my Turkish grave.
  Small the price which sets me free:
  Of pearls two measures--of gold but three."

  In vain she calls her brother.--'O no!
  My treasures to my apparel go:
  The gold my horse's bridle must deck:
  My pearls must grace my maiden's neck;
  Must buy a kiss--must buy a kiss.'
  The maid her brother answer'd with this:
  "I am no slave! I am no less
  Than the sultan's chosen sultaness."

                             S. J. B.



  Here there is a maiden,
  Young, and yet a virgin:
  Give her then a husband,
  Or give us the maiden,
  And we will betroth her
  To Ivan the student.
  He's our parson's nephew--
  He has art to write[22] on
  Pinions of the eagle.
  What shall be his subject?
  What--but bright-eyed maidens
  And the brows of heroes?

                             S. J. B.



  O thou lovely maiden!
  Lo! thy praise has mounted
  To the monarch's city
  Maiden! thou hast planted
  The six-branch'd _kaloper_[23]
  And bosilka early.
  But the youths unmarried
  Long have been in waiting
  To tear up thy balsam--
  Thy bosilka pillage.
  Know'st thou not they linger
  Just to steal thy kisses?
  Maiden! Maiden! never
  Let those youths betray thee!

                             S. J. B.



  O sleep! sweet sleep! in vain, in vain
    I bid thee visit me:
  The anxious thought disturbs my brain--
    Whose shall the maiden be?
  My mother says, "The goatherd, child!
    The goatherd, child! for thee."
  Nay, mother, nay! not he, not he;
  That were no happiness for me:
  He tracks the mountains steep and wild
  Where rocks and dangers be.

  O sleep! sweet sleep! in vain, in vain
    I bid thee visit me:
  The anxious thought disturbs my brain--
    Whose shall the maiden be?
  My mother says, "The shepherd, maid!
    The shepherd, maid! for thee."
  Nay, mother, nay! not he, not he;
  That were no happiness for me:
  He wanders through the distant glade
  Where wolves and perils be.

  O sleep! sweet sleep! in vain, in vain
    I bid thee visit me:
  The anxious thought disturbs my brain--
    Whose shall the maiden be?
  My mother says, "The tradesman, dear!
    The tradesman, dear! for thee."
  Nay, mother, nay! not he, not he;
  That were no happiness for me:
  He is a wanderer far and near,
  His house no home may be.

  O sleep! sweet sleep! in vain, in vain
    I bid thee visit me:
  The anxious thought disturbs my brain--
    Whose shall the maiden be?
  My mother says, "The tailor, then
    The tailor, then, for thee!"
  Nay, mother! nay; not he, not he!
  That were no happiness for me:
  The tailor's needle may be keen,
  His children hungry be.

  O sleep! sweet sleep! in vain, in vain
    I bid thee visit me;
  The anxious thought disturbs my brain--
    Whose shall the maiden be?
  My mother says,--"The peasant, take
    The peasant, child! for thee."
  Yes! mother, yes! in him I see
  Both love and happiness for me;
  For though his labouring hands are black,
  The whitest bread eats he.

                             S. J. B.



  His breath is amber,--sharp his reed;
  The hand which holds it, O! how white.
  He writes fair talismans,--a creed,
  For maidens doth the loved one write:
  "Of him that will not have thee,--think not!
  From him that fain would have thee, shrink not."

                             S. J. B.



  "Come with me, thou charming maiden!
  Be my love and come with me."
  'Wherefore play with words so foolish?
  That can never, never be;
  I had rather in the tavern
  Bear the golden cup, than ever,--
  Ever promise to be thine.'
  "I am the young tavern-keeper,
  So thou wilt indeed be mine."

  'Wherefore play with words so foolish?
  No such fate will e'er befall;
  In the coffee-house I'd rather
  Serve, envelop'd in my shawl,
  Rather than be thine at all.'
  "But I am the coffee boiler,
  Thee, my maiden, will I call."

  'Wherefore play with words so foolish?
  That can never, never be;
  Rather o'er the field I'll wander,
  Changed into a quail, than ever,
  Ever give myself to thee.'
  "But I am a vigorous sportsman,
  And thou wilt belong to me."

  'Play not, youth! with words so foolish,
  That can never, never be;
  Rather to a fish I'd change me,
  Dive me deep beneath the sea,
  Rather than belong to thee.'
  "But I am the finest network,
  Which into the sea I'll cast;
  Mine thou art, and mine thou shalt be,--
  Yes; thou must be mine at last;
  Be it here, or be it there,
  Mine thou must be everywhere."

                             S. J. B.



  Lovely maiden gather'd roses,
    Sleep o'ertook her then;
  Pass'd a youth and call'd the maiden,
    Waked the maid again:
  "Wake! O wake! thou lovely maiden,
    Why art slumbering now?
  All the rosy wreaths are fading,
    Fading on thy brow.
  He, thy heart's own love, will marry;
    He will break his vow!"
  'Let him marry, let him marry,
    I shall not complain;
  But the thunderbolt of heav'n
    Shall destroy him then.'

                             S. J. B.



  On the balcony young Jovan sported,
  While he sported, lo! it crash'd beneath him,
  And he fell,--his right arm broke in falling!
  Who shall find a surgeon for the sufferer?
  Lo! the Vila[24] of the mountain sends one,
  But the recompense he asks is heavy;
  Her white hand demands he of the mother,--
  Of the sister all her silken ringlets,--
  Of the wife he asks her pearl-strung necklace.

  Freely gave her hand young Jovan's mother,
  Freely gave her silken hair his sister,
  But his wife refus'd her pearly treasure:--
  "Nay! I will not give my pearl-strung necklace,
  For it was a present of my father."
  Anger then incens'd the Mountain-Vila,
  Into Jovan's wounds she pour'd her poison,
  And he died,--Alas! for thee, poor mother!

  Then began the melancholy cuckoos,[25]
  Cuckoos then began their funeral dirges;
  One pour'd out her mournful plaints unceasing,
  One at morning mourn'd, and mourn'd at ev'ning,
  And the third when'er sad thoughts came o'er her.
  Tell me which is the unceasing mourner?
  'Tis the sorrowing mother of young Jovan.
  Which at morning mourns and late at evening?
  'Tis the grieving sister of young Jovan.
  Which when melancholy thoughts come o'er her?
  'Tis the youthful wife,--the wife of Jovan.

                             S. J. B.



  I heard young Falisava say:
  "I'll have no ancient greybeard, nay!
  A sprightly beardless youth for me."
  An aged man the maiden heard,
  He shaves his long and snowy beard,
  And paints his chin like ebony:
  To Falisava then he goes--
  "My heart! my soul! my garden rose!
  A beardless youth is come for thee."
  And then she listen'd--they were wed--
  And to the old man's home they sped.

  Then twilight came, and evening's shade--
  And said the old man to the maid:
  "Sweet Falisava! maiden fair!
  Our bed beside the stove prepare,
  And the warm feather-mattress bear"--
  The maiden heard--the maiden went,
  And gather'd flowers of sweetest scent--
  Of sweetest scent and fairest hue,
  Which on the old man's bed she threw,
  And like on a strong-wing'd eagle then
  Flew to her father's home again.

                             S. J. B.



  Who is mourning there in Glamodelec's fortress?
  'Tis the Vila--'tis an angry serpent?
  'Tis no Vila--'tis no angry serpent!
  'Tis the maid Emina there lamenting--
  There lamenting, for her woe is grievous!
  Lo! the Ban[26] the maiden hath imprison'd--
  Hath imprison'd her, and will baptize her;
  But Emina never will be faithless--
  From the white-wall'd tower will fling her rather.

  Thus the unbelieving Ban address'd her:
  "Unbelieving Ban! a moment tarry,
  While I hasten to the upper story."
  And she hasten'd to the upper story;
  Look'd around her from the white-wall'd fortress:
  In the distance saw her father's dwelling--
  Saw the white school where she pass'd her childhood
  "O my father's home! my poor heart's sorrow!
  School of childhood! once that childhood's terror!
  Many a day of weariness and sorrow
  Did thy small-writ lessons give Emina."

  Then she wrapp'd her snowy robes around her--
  Thought not of the band that bound her tresses,
  And she flung her from the fortress turret.
  But her hair-band caught the open window--
  From the window, ah she hung suspended--
  Hung a week suspended from the window--
  Then her hair gave away--and then the maiden
  On the greensward fell.

                        The Christian heard it--
  He, the Christian Ban, and hasten'd thither;
  Oft and oft he kiss'd the dead Emina;
  And he peacefully entom'd the maiden.
  O'er her grave a chapel he erected,
  And with golden apples he adorn'd it.
  Ere a week had pass'd away, descended
  On her tomb a beauteous light from heaven;
  At her head a beauteous light was kindled;
  At her feet another light shone sweetly;
  And her aged mother saw and wonder'd
  From her chain she took her knife, and plunged it--
  Plunged it deep within her troubled bosom--
  Fell, and died--O melancholy mother!

                             S. J. B.



  I loved her from her infancy,
      Lado![27] Lado!
  From childhood to maturity,
      Lado! Lado!
  And when I claim'd the smiling maid,
      Lado! Lado!
  "Ye are of kindred blood!" they said,
      Lado! Lado!
  "Brother and sister's children ye,
      Lado! Lado!
  It were a sin to steal a kiss,"
      Lado! Lado!
  Oh what a sacrifice is this!
      Lado! Lado!
  I'll steal a kiss though I be riven,
      Lado! Lado!
  From every, every hope of heaven,
      Lado! Lado!
  For what would heaven become to me
      Lado! Lado!
  When the long nights of autumn flee,
      Lado! Lado!

                             S. J. B.



  The sky is cover'd with stars again:
  The plains are cover'd with flocks of sheep:
  But where is the shepherd? On the plain
  The shepherd is lost in careless sleep:
  The youthful Radoje sleeps:--Arise!
  Awake! his sister Jania cries.

  "Jania! sister nay! depart!
  My body to witches is plighted:
  My mother has torn away my heart,
  And my aunt my mother lighted."

                             S. J. B.



  The wind was with the roses playing:
    To Ranko's tent it blew their leaves:
  Milica, Ranko, there were staying,
    And Ranko writes--Milica weaves.
  His letter done, he drops his pen:
    Her finish'd web she throws aside:
  And lo! I heard the lover then
    Low whisper to his promised bride:
  "Milica! tell me truly now
    And dost thou love me--love me best?
  Or heavy is thy nuptial vow?"--
    And thus the maid the youth address'd:
  "O trust me--thou my heart--my soul--
    That thou art dearer far to me--
  Far dearer, Ranko! than the whole
    Of brothers--many though they be:
  And that the vows we pledged together
  Are lighter than the lightest feather."

                             S. J. B.



  O flower! so lovely in thy bloom,
  Be evil fate thy mother's doom!
  Thy mother, who so kindly nurst,
  And sent thee to our village first.
  Where heroes o'er their cups romancing,
  And our young striplings stones are flinging,
  And our delighted brides are dancing,
  And our gay maidens songs are singing--
  'Twas then I saw thee, lovely flower!
  And lost my quiet from that hour.

                             S. J. B.



  The winter is gone,
    Beloved, arise!
  The spring is come on,
  The birds are all singing:
    Beloved, arise!

  The roses are springing;
  Earth laughs out in love:
    Beloved, arise!
  And thou, my sweet dove!
  O waste not thy time:
    Beloved, arise.

  Enjoy the sweet bliss
  Of a kiss--of a kiss:
    Beloved, arise
  In the hour of thy prime,
    Beloved, arise!

                             S. J. B.



  I have piercing eyes--the eyes of falcons:
  I am of undoubted noble lineage:
  I can read the heart of Osman Aga:
  I was ask'd by Osman Aga's mother:

  "Cursed witch: and yet most lovely maiden!
  Why with white and red dost paint thy visage?
  Fascinate no longer Osman Aga!
  I will speed me to the verdant forest,
  Build me up of maple-trees a dwelling,
  And lock up within it Osman Aga."

  Then the maid replied to Osman's mother:
  "Lady Anka! Osman Aga's mother--
  I have falcon eyes--and eyes of devils:
  With them I can ope thy ample dwelling--
  With them visit, too, thy Osman Aga."

                             S. J. B.



  Two solitary sisters, who
  A brother's fondness never knew,
  Agreed, poor girls, with one another,
  That they would make themselves a brother:
  They cut them silk, as snow-drops white;
  And silk, as richest rubies bright;
  They carved his body from a bough
  Of box-tree from the mountain's brow;
  Two jewels dark for eyes they gave;
  For eyebrows, from the ocean's wave
  They took two leeches; and for teeth
  Fix'd pearls above, and pearls beneath;
  For food they gave him honey sweet,
  And said, "Now live, and speak, and eat."

                             S. J. B.



  On the hill, the fir-tree hill,
    Grows a tall fir-tree:
  There a maiden, calm and still,
    Sits delightedly.
  To a youthful swain she pledges
    Vows: "O come to me:
  Lightly spring across the hedges:
    Come--but slightly.
  Come at eve--lest harm betide thee.
    If any home thou seek,
  In our quiet dwelling hide thee;
    Not a whisper speak."
  And he o'er the hedges sprung,
    Lo! a twig he tore:
  When the house-door ope he flung,
    Noisy was the door.
  When he enter'd in, there fell
    Shelves upon the floor,
  'Twas the broken china's knell--
    O the luckless hour!
  Then her mother comes afeard,
    Trips and cuts her knee;
  And her father burns his beard
    In perplexity.
  And the youth must quench the fire,
    And the maiden must retire.

                             S. J. B.



  Lo! upon the mountain green
  Stands a fir-tree tall and thin--
  'Tis no fir-tree--none at all--
  'Tis a maiden thin and tall.
  Three long years the enamour'd one
  Fed upon her eyes alone;
  On the fourth, he sought the bliss
  Of the maiden's primal kiss
  "Why, thou witching maid! repel me--
  Why with foot of scorn dost tread,
  On my feet, my boots of red!
  Why despise me, maiden! tell me."

  "No, my friend, I will not tread
  On thy feet, thy boots of red!
  Come at evening--come and string
  Pearls for me--and thou shalt fling
  O'er me my embroider'd shawl.
  We will go at morning's call
  To the kolo--Friend! but thou
  Must not touch the maiden now--

  Know'st thou not that busy slander
  Follows us wher'er we wander?
  Evil tongues are ever talking;
  Calumny abroad is walking
  Know'st thou that a simple kiss
  Ample food for slander is?
  'Never did we kiss,' you'll say,
  'Till last evening and to-day.'
  Come at evening--come, my dear.
  Sisters' eyes will watch thee here."

                             S. J. B.



  "Where wert thou! Misho! yesterday?"
  "O 'twas a happy day for me!
  A lovely maiden cross'd my way
  A maiden smiling lovelily
  And those sweet smiles for me were meant;
  I claimed her--mother answer'd, 'No!'
  Would steal her--vain was the intent,
    For many guardians watch'd her so.
  There grows a verdant almond-tree
  Before her house--its boughs I'll climb;
  Wail like a cuckoo mournfully,
  And swallow-like, at evening time,
  Pour forth my woe in throbbings deep
  And like a sorrowing widow sigh,
  And like a youthful maiden weep.
  So may her mother turn her eye,
  Pitying my grief, her heart may move,
  And she may give me her I love."

                             S. J. B.



  I wish the happy time were nigh,
  When youths are sold, that I might buy.
  But for an azure-eyed Mlinar,[28]
  I would not give a single dinar,
  Though for a raven-black eyed youth,
  A thousand golden coins, in truth.
  Alas! alas! and is it true?
  My own fair youth has eyes of blue;
  Yes! they are blue--yet dear to me--
  Will he forgive my levity?
  Ye maidens! pray him to forgive me;
  Nay! spare me now--and rather leave me
  To tell him "I am yours"--and smile
  In fond affection all the while.

                             S. J. B.



  Rose! O smile upon the youth no longer;
  He in his impatience to be wedded,
  Chose a widow for his years unsuited,
  And wher'er she goes, where'er she tarries,
  She is mourning for her ancient husband.
  "O my husband! first and best possession!
  Happy were the days we spent together!
  Early we retired and late we waken'd
  Thou didst wake me kissing my white forehead,
  'Up, my heart! the sun is high in heaven,
  And our aged mother is arisen.'"

                             S. J. B.



  Fairest youths are here--but not the fairest!
  Could I hear him now, or could I see him,--
  Could I know if he be sick, or faithless!
  Were he sick, my ears would rather hear it,
  Than that he had loved another maiden.
  Sickness may depart, and time restore him,--
  If enamour'd,--never! never! never!

                             S. J. B.



  O! If I were a mountain streamlet,
    I know where I would flow
  I'd spring into the crystal Sava,
    Where the gay vessels go,
  That I might look upon my lover--
    For fain my heart would know
  If, when he holds the helm, he ever
    Looks on my rose, and thinks
  Of her who gave it;--if the nosegay
    I made of sweetest pinks
  Is faded yet, and if he wear it.
    On Saturday I cull
  To give him for a Sabbath present
    All that is beautiful.

                             S. J. B.



  The maiden gave the ring she wore
  To him who gave it her before:
  "O take the ring--for thou and thine
  Are hated,--not by me--but mine--
  Father and mother will not hear thee
  Brother and sister both forswear thee
  Yet, think not, youth,--I think not ill
  Of her who needs must love thee still!
  I am a poor unhappy maid,
  Whose path the darkest clouds o'ershade,
  I sowed sweet basil, and there grew
  On that same spot the bitterest rue
  And wormwood, that unholy flower,
  I now alone my marriage dower;
  The only flower which they shall wear
  Who to the maiden's marriage comes,
  When for my marriage altar there
  The guests shall find the maiden's tomb."

                             S. J. B.



  Upon her mother's bosom lay
  Young Mira, and she pined away.
  'Twas in her own maternal bed;
  And thus the anxious mother said:--
  "What ails thee, tell me, Mira, pray?"

  "O ask me not, my mother dear!
  I feel that death approaches near,
  I shall not rise from this my bed;
  But, mother mine! when I am dead--
  O mother mine! call round me all
  My playmates to my funeral;
  And let the friends I loved receive
  The little gifts that I shall leave;
  Then let me sleep in peace beneath.--

  There's one, my mother, I should grieve
  To be divided from in death.
  Then call around me priests divine,
  And pious pilgrims, mother mine!
  The forehead of thy dying daughter
  Steep in the rose's fragrant water.
  And, mother, let my forehead be
  Dried with the rose-leaves from the tree;
  And pillow not thy daughter's head,
  O mother! with the common dead;
  But let me have a quiet tomb
  Adjacent to my Mirjo's home,
  And near my Mirjo's nightly bed;
  So when he wakes his thoughts shall dwell
  With her he loved and loved so well."

                             S. J. B.



  The sun sank down behind the gold-flower'd hill;
    The warriors from the fight approach the shore:
  There stood young George's wife, serene and still:
    She counted all the heroes o'er and o'er,
  And found not those she loved--though they were three:--
    Her husband, George; her marriage friend, another
  Who late had led the marriage revelry;
    The third, her best-loved, her only brother.

  Her husband he was dead; she rent her hair
    For him--Her friend was gone,--for him she tore
  Her cheeks--Her only brother was not there:
    For him she pluck'd her eye-balls from their bed.
  Her hair grew forth as lovely as before;
    Upon her cheeks her former beauties spread;
  But nothing could her perish'd sight restore:
    Nought heals the heart that mourns a brother dead.

                             S. J. B.



  "Maiden! hast thou seen my steed?"
  "Faithless one! not I, indeed!
  But I heard that thou hadst tied him
  To the mountain-maple tree;
  When a stranger pass'd beside him,
  Full of scorn and rage was he:
  With his hoofs the ground he beat;
  Of his master's guilt he knew.
  Not one maiden did he cheat.
  No; that master cheated two:
  One has borne a wretched child;
  One with grief and shame is wild."

                             S. J. B.



  Say! dost thou remember when under the vine,
  Thy tears fell in streams on the breast of thy maid;
  When thy heart burst in joy as I own'd thee for mine?
  Alas! for the maiden whose peace is betray'd
  By the tears and the vows of a falsehood like thine!
  As the changeable sky--now o'erclouded, now bright,
  Is the faith of thy race--their language to-day,
  "I will wed thee to-morrow, my love and my light!"
  To-morrow--"Let's wait till the harvest's away."
  The harvest is ended, the winter is nigh
  And another maid dwells in their hearts and their eye.

                             S. J. B.



  "Black is the night--an outcast lad
  Is wandering in our village, mother!
  Thy daughter's heart is very sad,
  Sad even to death! He has no home:
  O give him ours, he has no other,
  And bid the lad no longer roam!"
  "Nay! daughter, let this outcast stray,
  He is a proud and city youth;
  Will ask for wine at break of day,
  And costly meats at eve, forsooth,
  And for his city-tutor'd head
  Will want a soft and stately bed."

  "O mother! In God's name divine,
  Give the poor lad a shelter now:
  My eyes shall serve instead of wine,
  For costly meats my maiden brow.
  My neck shall be his honey comb.
  His bed the dewy grass shall be,
  And heaven his stately canopy.
  His head shall rest upon my arm.
  O mother! give the youth a home,
  And shelter, shelter him from harm."

                             S. J. B.



  The Marriage Leader:

  "Make ready! make ready,"
  To his sister the youth is repeating;
  "Make ready my steed for the wedding,
  O sister! the young Doge[29] is waiting.
  I'm bid to the wedding, I'm summon'd to guide
  To the wedding the maiden--the Doge's young bride."

  The approaching bridegroom:

  What is shining on the verdant mountain?
  Sun--or moon--that shines so brightly,
  'Tis not sun, or moon that shines so brightly,
  'Tis the bridegroom hasting to the marriage.

  Parting of the bride:

  Sweetest of maidens! O be still,
  Be silent--prithee weep not now
  Thy mother she will weep--wilt fill
  Her sorrowing eyes with tears, for thou
  Wilt leave thy cherish'd home ere long:
  And when thy young companions go
  To the fresh stream, amidst the throng
  She'll seek thee--will she find thee! No!

  Departure of the wedding guests:

  O thou young bridegroom, thou rose in its beauty,
  Lo! we have brought thee a rosemary branch,
  And if the rosemary branch should decay,
  Thine will the shame be, the sorrow be ours.
  Scatter the rosemary leaves o'er thy way;
  Let not destruction disparage its flowers.

  To the bride, when the marriage hood is first put on:

  Maid from a distant forest tree,
  A verdant leaf is blown to thee;
  And that green leaf has fixed it now,
  In the green garland on thy brow:
  The garland green, that we have bound
  Maiden! thy auburn ringlets round:
  O no! it is no leaf, that we
  Have braided in a wreath for thee;
  'Tis the white hood that thou must wear,
  The token of domestic care:
  Thou hast no mother now--another,
  A stranger must be called thy mother;
  And sister-love thy heart must share,
  With one who was not born thy brother.

  At the marriage:

  An apple tree at Ranko's door was growing,
  Its trunk was silver, golden were its branches;
  Its branches golden and of pearls its foliage,
  Its leaves were pearls, and all its apple corals.
  And many dovelets, on the branches seated,
  Coo'd in their fond affection to each other;
  Coo'd loudly, and they pluck'd the pearls--one only
  One, only one was silent, one was silent--
  It coo'd not, pluck'd no pearls from off the branches:
  That one was terrified by Ranko's mother:
  "Begone--grey dovelet! thou art an intruder!
  Was not the apple-tree by Ranko planted?
  By Ranko planted, and by Ranko watered,
  That it might shade the guests at Ranko's marriage,
  Shade all his guests beneath its joyous branches."

                             S. J. B.



  Upon the silent Danube's shore,
    When ev'ning wastes, 'tis sweet to see
  'Their golden wine cups flowing o'er';
    Our heroes in their revelry.

  A youthful beauty pours the wine,
    And each will pledge a cup to her;
  And each of charms that seem divine,
    Would fain become a worshipper.

  "Nay! heroes, nay!" the virgin cried,
    "My service--not my love--I give:
  For one alone--for none beside:
    For one alone I love and live."

                             S. J. B.



  Lo! the maid her rosy cheeks is laving.
  Listen! while she bathes her snowy forehead:
  "Forehead! if I thought an old man's kisses
  Would be stamp'd upon thee, I would hasten
  To the forest, and would gather wormwood
  Into boiling water press its bitters:
  With it steep my forehead ev'ry morning,
  That the old man's kiss might taste of wormwood.
  But, if some fair youth should come to kiss me,
  I would hurry to the verdant garden:
  I would gather all its sweetest roses,
  Would condense their fragrance,--and at morning,
  Every morning, would perfume my forehead
  So the youth's sweet kiss would breathe of fragrance,
  And his heart be gladden'd with the odour.
  Better dwell with youth upon the mountains,
  Than with age in luxury's richest palace:
  Better sleep with youth on naked granite,
  Than with eld on silks howe'er voluptuous."

                             S. J. B.



  In my court the morning's twilight found me;
  At the chase the early sun while rising,
  I upon the mountain--and behind it,
  On that mountain, 'neath a dark-green pine tree
  Lo! I saw a lovely maiden sleeping;
  On a clover-sheaf her head was pillow'd;
  On her bosom lay two snowy dovelets;
  In her lap there was a dappled fawnkin.
  There I tarried till the fall of ev'ning:
  Bound my steed at night around the pine-tree:
  Bound my falcon to the pine-tree branches:
  Gave the sheaf of clover to my courser:
  Gave the two white dovelets to my falcon:
  Gave the dappled fawn to my good greyhound:
  And, for me,--I took the lovely maiden.

                             S. J. B.



  I fain would sing--but will be silent now,
  For pain is sitting on my lover's brow;
  And he would hear me--and, though silent, deem
  I pleased myself, but little thought of him,
  While of nought else I think; to him I give
  My spirit--and for him alone I live;
  Bear him within my heart, as mothers bear
  The last and youngest object of their care.

                             S. J. B.



  Say, heavenly spirit! kindly say,
    Where tarries now this youth of mine;
  Say, is he speeding on his way,
    Or doth he linger, drinking wine?

  If he be speeding on,--elated
    With joy and gladness let him be:
  If quaffing wine,--in quiet seated,
    O! his be peace and gaiety!

  But if he love another maiden,
    I wish him nought but sorrow:--No!
  Then be his heart with anguish laden!
    And let Heaven smite his path with woe!

                             S. J. B.



  Thick fell the snow upon St. George's day;
  The little birds all left their cloudy bed;
  The maiden wander'd bare-foot on her way;
  Her brother bore her sandals, and he said:
  "O sister mine! cold, cold thy feet must be."
  "No! not my feet, sweet brother! not my feet--
  But my poor heart is cold with misery.
  There's nought to chill me in the snowy sleet
  My mother--tis my mother who hath chill'd me,
  Bound me to one who with disgust hath fill'd me."

                             S. J. B.



  Fondly lov'd a youth and youthful maiden,
  And they wash'd them in the self-same water,
  And they dried them with the self-same linen
  Full a year had pass'd, and no one knew it
  Yet another year--'twas all discover'd,
  And the father heard it, and the mother;
  But the mother check'd their growing fondness,
  Banish'd love, and exiled them for ever.

  To the stars he look'd, and bade them tell her:
  "Die, sweet maiden! on the week's last even;
  Early will I die on Sabbath morning."

  As the stars foretold the event, it happen'd;
  On the eve of Saturday the maiden
  Died--and died the youth on Sunday morning:
  And they were, fond pair, together buried;
  And their hands were intertwined together:
  In those hands they placed the greenest apples;
  When behold! ere many moons had shone there,
  From the grave sprung up a verdant pine-tree,
  And a fragrant crimson rose-tree follow'd:
  Round the pine the rose-tree fondly twined it,
  As around the straw the silk clings closely.

                             S. J. B.



  I walkt the high and hollow wood, from dawn to even-dew,
  The wild-eyed wood stared at me, and unclaspt, and let me through,
  Where mountain pines, like great black birds, stood percht against
    the blue.

  Not a whisper heaved the woven woof of those warm trees:
  All the little leaves lay flat, unmoved of bird or breeze:
  Day was losing light all round, by indolent degrees.

  Underneath the brooding branches, all in holy shade,
  Unseen hands of mountain things a mossy couch had made:
  There asleep among pale flowers my beloved was laid.

  Slipping down, a sunbeam bathed her brows with bounteous gold,
  Unmoved upon her maiden breast her heavy hair was roll'd,
  Her smile was silent as the smile on corpses three hours old.
  "O God!" I thought, "if this be death, that makes not sound nor stir."
  My heart stood still with tender awe, I dared not waken her,
  But to the dear God, in the sky, this prayer I did prefer:

  "Grant, dear Lord, in the blessed sky, a warm wind from the sea,
  Then shake a leaf down on my love from yonder leafy tree;
  That she may open her sweet eyes, and haply look on me."

  The dear God, from the distant sea, a little wind releast,
  It shook a leaflet from the tree, and laid it on her breast,
  Her sweet eyes ope'd and looked on me. How can I tell the rest?

                             O. M.



  He. Violet, little one mine,
      I would love thee, but thou art so small.

  She. Love me, my love, from those heights of thine,
       And I shall grow tall, so tall,
       The pearl is small, but it hangs above
       The royal brow, and a kingly mind
       The quail is little, little, my love,
       But she leaves the hunter behind.

                             O. M.



  He. O maiden of my soul!
      What odour from the orange hast thou stole,
      That breathes about thy breast with such sweet power?
      What sweetness, unto me
      More sweet than amber honey to the bee
      That builds in the oaken hole,
      And sucks the essential summer of the year
      To store with sweetest sweets her hollow tower?
      Or is it breath of basil, maiden dear?
      Or of the immortal flower?

  She. By the sweet heavens, young lover!
       No odour from the orange have I stole;
       Nor have I robb'd for thee,
       Dearest the amber dower
       Of the building bee,
       From any hollow tower
       In oaken bole:
       But if, on this poor breast thou dost discover
       Fragrance of such sweet power,
       Trust me, O my beloved and my lover,
       'Tis not of basil, nor the immortal flower,
       But from a virgin soul.

                             O. M.



  He. "And art thou wed, my beloved?
      My Beloved of long ago?"

  She. "I am wed, my Beloved. And I have given
       A child to this world of woe.
       And the name I have given my child is thine:
       So that, when I call to me my little one,
       The heaviness of this heart of mine
       For a little while may be gone.
       For I say not ... 'Hither, hither, my son!'
       But ... 'Hither, my Love, my Beloved.'"



  The morning is growing: the cocks are crowing:
  Let me away, love, away!

  'Tis not the morning light;
  Only the moonbeam white.
  Stay, my white lamb, stay,
  And sleep on my bosom, sleep.

  The breeze is blowing: the cattle are lowing:
  Let me away, love, away!

  'Tis not the cattle there;
  Only the call to prayer.
  Stay, my white lamb, stay,
  And sleep on my bosom, sleep.

  The Turks are warning to the mosque, 'tis morning!
  Let me away, love, away!

  'Tis not the Turks, sweet soul!
  Only the wolves that howl.
  Stay, my white lamb, stay,
  And sleep on my bosom, sleep.

  The white roofs are gleaming: the glad children screaming:
  Let me away, love, away!

  'Tis the night-clouds that gleam:
  The night winds that scream.
  Stay, my white lamb, stay,
  And sleep on my bosom, sleep.

  My mother in the gateway calls to me.... "Come straightway"
  And I must away, love, away!

  Thy mother's in her bed,
  Dumb, holy, and dead.
  Stay, my white lamb, stay,
  And sleep on my bosom, sleep.

                             O. M.



  All in the spring,
  When little birds sing,
  And flowers do talk
  From stalk to stalk;
  Whispering to a silver shower,
  A violet did boast to be
  Of every flower the fairest flower
  That blows by lawn or lea.
  But a rose that blew thereby
  Answer'd her reproachfully,
  (All in the spring,
  When little birds sing,
  And flowers do talk
  From stalk to stalk):
  "Violet, I marvel me
  Of fairest flowers by lawn or lea
  The fairest thou should'st boast to be;
  For one small defect I spy,
  Should make thee speak more modestly:
  Thy face is fashion'd tenderly,
  But then it hangs awry."

                             O. M.



  The Day of Saint George! and a girl pray'd thus:
  "O Day of Saint George, when again to us
  Thou returnest, and they carouse
  Here in my mother's house,
  May'st thou find me either a corpse or a bride,
  Either buried or wed;
  Rather married than dead;
  But, however, that may betide,
  And whether a corpse or a spouse,
  No more in my mother's house."

                             O. M.



  He. O maiden, vermeil rose!
      Unplanted, unsown,
      Blooming alone
      As the wild-flower blows,
      With a will of thine own!
      Neither grafted nor grown,
      Neither gather'd nor blown,
      O maiden, O rose!
      Blooming alone
      In the green garden-close
      Unnoticed, unknown,
      Unpropt, unsupported,
      Unwater'd, and uncourted,
      Unwoo'd and unwed,
      A sweet wild rose,
      Who knows? Who knows?
      Might I kiss thee, and court thee?
      My kiss would not hurt thee!
      A sweet, sweet rose,
      In the green garden-close,
      If a gate were undone,
      And if I might come to thee
      And meet thee alone?
      Sue thee, and woo thee,
      And make thee my own?
      Clasp thee, and cull thee, what harm would be done?

  She. Beside thy field my garden blows,
       Were a gate in the garden left open ... who knows?
       And I water'd my garden at eventide?
       (Who knows?)
       And if somebody silently happen'd to ride
       That way? And a horse to the gate should be tied?
       And if somebody (Who knows who,), unespied,
       Were to enter my garden to gather a rose?
       Who knows?... I suppose
       No harm need be done. My beloved one,
       Come lightly, come softly, at set of the sun!
       Come, and caress me!
       Kiss me, and press me,
       Fold me, and hold me!
       Kiss me with kisses that leave not a trace,
       But set not the print of thy teeth on my face,
       Or my mother will see it, and scold me.

                             O. M.



  I would I were a rivulet,
  And I know where I would run!
  To Save, the chilly river,
  Where the market boats pass on;
  To see my dear one stand
  By the rudder; and whether the rose
  Which, at parting, I put in his hand,
  Warm with a kiss in it, blows;
  Whether it blows or withers:
  I pluckt it on Saturday;
  I gave it to him on Sunday;
  On Monday he went away.

                             O. M.



  'Tis the Kolo[31] that dances before the white house,
  And 'tis Stojan's fair sister, O fair, fair is she!
  Too fair she is truly, too fair, heaven knows,
  (God forgive her!) so cruel to be.
  The fair Vila, whom the wan clouds fondly follow
  O'er the mountain wherever she roam it,
  Is not fairer nor whiter than she.
  Her long soft eyelash is the wing of the swallow
  When the dew of the dawn trembles from it,
  And as dawn-stars her blue eyes to me:
  Her eyebrows so dark are the slender sea-leeches;
  Her rich-bloomed cheeks are the ripe river peaches,
  Her teeth are white pearls from the sea;
  Her lips are two half-open'd roses;
  And her breath the south wind, which discloses
  The sweetness that soothes the wild bee.
  She is tall as the larch, she is slender
  As any green bough the birds move;
  See her dance--'tis the peacock's full splendour!
  Hear her talk--'tis the coo of the dove!
  And, only but let her look tender--
  'Tis all heaven melting down from above!

                             O. M.



  Sleep will not take the place of Love,
  Nor keep the place from Sorrow.
  Oh, when the long nights slowly move
  To meet a lonely morrow,
  The burden of the broken days,
  The grief that on the bosom weighs,
  And all the heart oppresses,
  But lightly lies on restless eyes
  Love seals no more with kisses.

                             O. M.



  Sweet sister of my loved, unloving one,
  Kiss thy wild brother, kiss him tenderly!
  Ask him what is it, witless, I have done
  That he should look so coldly upon me?
  Ah, well ... I know he recks not! Let it be.
  Yet say ... "There's many a woodland nodding yet
  For who needs wood when winter nights be cold."
  Say ... "Love to give finds ever love to get.
  There lack not goldsmiths where there lacks not gold.
  The wood will claim the woodman by-and-by;
  The gold (be sure!) the goldsmith cannot miss;
  Each maid to win finds lads to woo: and I...."
  Well, child, but only tell him, tell him this!
  Sweet sister, tell him this!

                             O. M.



  O maiden, mother's golden treasure!
  Purest gold of perfect pleasure!
  Do they beat thee, and ill-treat thee,
  That I meet thee all alone?
  Do they beat thee, that I meet thee
  All too often, all too late,
  After nightfall, at the gate
  Of the garden, all alone?
  Tell me, tell me, little one,
  Do they do it? If I knew it,
  They should rue it! I would come
  Oftener, later, yet again,
  (Hail, or snow, or wind, or rain!)
  Oftener, later! Nor in vain:
  For if mother, for my sake,
  Were to drive thee out of home,
  Just three little steps 'twould take
  (Think upon it, little one!)--
  Just three little steps, or four,
  To my door from mother's door.
  Love is wise. I say no more.
  Ponder on it, little one!

                             O. M.



  The night is very dark and very lonely:
  And as dark, and all as lonely, is my heart:
  And the sorrow that is in it night knows only:
  For the dawn breaks, and my heart breaks. Far apart
  From my old self seems my new self. And my mother
  And my sister are in heaven,--so they say:
  And the dear one dearer yet than any other
  Is far, far away.
  The sweet hour of his coming ... night is falling!
  The hour of our awakening ... bird on bough!
  The hour of last embraces ... friends are calling
  "Love, farewell!" ... and every hour is silent now.

                             O. M.



  Beneath a milk-white almond tree,
  Fatima and Mehmed be.
  The black earth is their bridal bed;
  The thick-starred sky clear-spread
  Is their coverlet all the night,
  As they lie in each other's arms so white.
  The grass is full of honey-dew;
  The crescent moon, that glimmers through
  The unrippled leaves, is faint and new:
  And the milk-white almond blossoms
  All night long fall on their bosoms.

                             O. M.



  On the banks of Morava,
  Sleek black horses danced,
  "Could not we," one horse did say,
  "Over this river swim to-day?"
  But the second cried, "Beware,
  Deep flows the stream, beware, beware!
  'Twas by these banks of Morava,
  At set of sun a knight was drowned,
  And dawn had broke ere he was found.
  If mother this poor knight had had,
  Within a day his fate she'd know,
  And him to seek next day would go;
  The third day, finding him, would weep,
  And who knows how long sad heart keep?"
  To which a third black horse replied
  "No mother mourns him as lost son,
  But mother-in-law the knight has one!
  She in one year would surely cry:
  'What has my daughter's husband done?'
  And in two years find time to go
  Toward the place where he lay low;
  And when there should have passed years three,
  His grave, perchance, she then might see--
  Where long since green grass had grown,
  The peacock preened himself and flown."

                             J. W. W.



  In the green grass a girl fell asleep;
  When she awoke the grass was red,
  And her ruddy cheeks were green instead.
  Before the Kadi the girl sued the grass:
  Give me, O grass, my color red!"
  And to the girl the red grass said:
  "Thy color red, I'll give it thee,
  When my color green thou dost give me."
  Then before the Kadi they exchanged color
  And became bosom-sisters for ever and ever.

                             J. W. W.



  To the great sun a radiant maiden cried:
  "Bright sun, thy beauty cannot equal mine!"
  Whereon the burning orb complained to God:
  "Let me bring low her pride, and scorch her face."
  To which request his mighty Maker said:
  "The burden that she bears is weight enough;
  Her father and her mother, both I've taken;
  One simple, smiling youth alone is left to her;
  Touch not their joy, let him be fond of her."

                             J. W. W.



  To the river ran the mother,
  To her Mary by the water,
  Dreaming there, the pretty daughter:
  "Have you washed the linen, Mary?"
  "Why, mother dear, not yet begun;
  A naughty youth did come my way,
  And muddy made the silvery water."
  "I'll curse him, then; I'll curse him, daughter!
  Cold be his heart as ice is cold."
  "As cold as the sun o'er the corn-fields, mother!"
  "May his face be black before all men!"
  "As black as the snow on the mountains, mother!"
  "May he be hanged!--Dost hear, my daughter!"
  "But hanged upon my neck, dear mother!"
  "From grievous wounds he then shall suffer!"
  "Let my own teeth, then, cause them, mother!"
  "May the wild torrent take him, daughter!"
  "And bring him home to me, my mother!"

                             J. W. W.



  A yellow orange by the sea
    Vaunted much his beauty,
  This boast the red, round apple heard,
  Scolded the orange for his word,
    "See my superiority!"

  The apple's boast the meadow heard,
    The meadow rich beflowered:
  "Boast not, thou smooth, round apple red,
  But see how I am carpeted,
    So green and richly dowered!"

  The meadow's boast the maiden heard:
    "Deem'st flowery mead, so great thy worth!
  Though sweetly thou art sure bedight,
  Yet still I am the sweetest sight,
    That can be found in all the earth."

  These vaunts heard all a daring youth:
    "This maid, I see she is in truth,
  She is by far the sweetest flower
    That can be found in all the earth.
  That orange, I will bring it down,
    That apple-tree, I'll root it up,
  That meadow's flowers shall all be mown,
  And thou, fair maid, shalt be mine own!"

                             J. W. W.



  "Wait, my girl, I want to talk,
  Though my talk will wound thee!"
  "Speak, O Youth; I'll listen, speak!
  Even though thou wound me"
  "Well, I am about to die."
  "Die! Where will they bury thee?"
  "I pray to rest upon thy breast."
  "Ah! blind and foolish is thy prayer!
  That were unseemly cemet'ry.
  My bosom is no graveyard lone,
  An apple orchard is my breast
  Where fruits do ripen, birds do rest!"

                             J. W. W.



  Many youths paid court to Toda,
  She, the blithesome shepherd girl;
  So with mirthful laugh she cried:
  "The youth on whom my apple falls,
  'Tis henceforth he my heart enthralls."
  Then Toda threw her apple red,
  Which fell upon a grey-haired head.
  Toda had not wished such love,
  So sent him off to draw her water.
  She sent him thus unto the river,
  That no more trouble he might give her!
  But safely back the old man came,
  Brought the water, smiled and spake:
  "O love me, Toda, love me, Toda."
  Toda did not want to love him,
  So sent him off to cut down branches,
  Not caring should they fall upon him;
  But safely back the old man came,
  Brought the wood, and smiled and spake:
  "O love me, Toda, little Toda!"
  Toda did not want to love him,
  So sent him to the war to fight,
  Not caring what might be his plight:
  But safely back the old man came,
  Back from the war, and spake the same:
  "O love me, Toda, Toda, love me!
  That which must be, let it be."

                             J. W. W.



  Under the clouds there's nought to me
  So handsome as a falcon bird.
  A falcon I did wish to be,
  And my wish by God was heard.
  High to the clouds I flew,
  And over the clouds too!
  Then to a nut-tree I shot down.
  Under the tree a vila sleeping!
  Or else some being strange to me!
  Oh, God Himself, and He alone, can say,
  But she was fairer than the fairest summer day.

                             J. W. W.



  Red Sun! too quickly art thou hasting down;
  A little while prolong thy stay,
  Smile from thy evening gate on me,
  Till I've adorned with roses three--
  Roses of silk in purest gold--
  My darling's garment that I hold:
  The first rose, a rose for my own country dear,
  The second, a rose for sweet mother,
  The third, the rose of my own bridal crown.
  O stay, glad Sun! too quickly art thou going down!

                             J. W. W.



  The girl awoke at dawn of day,
  Aroused by trilling roundelay;
  "Nightingale, oh, stop thy singing!
  Stop thy singing, pray!
  Cease thy songs, and fly away
  To Cattaro, down by the bay.

  To Cattaro now speed thy flight,
  To tell the dream I've dreamt this night:
  I found me in his garden gay,
  Gathering fair roses;
  With his eye he followed me,
  As I passed from tree to tree.

  I brought him then red roses fair,
  And tied them in his steed's black hair.
  Smiling, then a ring he gave me;
  Ah, a ring so rare!
  And he kissed me where I stood;
  A kiss that made to me all good.

  Smiling, yes, a kiss he gave me!
  Than golden ring with diamond bright
  More precious far in my heart's sight.
  Stop singing, bird!
  This is my dream; go, tell him so,
  Go! wing thy way to Cattaro."

                             J. W. W.



  I married last year,
  This year I repent.
  Bad husband have I,
  With temper like nettle:
  My lot I resent.

  The frost kills the nettle,
  But this husband of mine,
  He thinks the frost fine:
  By the stove all day long
  He does nothing but sit,
  And says that the frost
  He minds not one bit!

  In Celovec 'tis market-day,
  'Tis market-day to-morrow;
  I will take my husband there,
  And will either there him change,
  Or else will sell him at the fair.
  Not too cheap I'll let him go,
  Because he was so hard to get;
  Rather than too cheaply sell him,
  Back home again I'll take the man,
  And love him--howsomuch I can!

                             J. W. W.



  How beautiful it is this evening-time!
  The noblemen, they quaff the cool wine,
  And to their knee there comes a little stag,
  With golden peacock proudly on one shoulder,
  While on the other, perching there as neighbour,
  Behold a silver-throated nightingale!
  Upon whom gazing, saith the peacock golden:
  "How now, my silver-throated friend!
  If mine it were to trill thy liquid note,
  To every noble knight I'd sing a song,
  And honour each in turn from my clear throat."
  Answered the nightingale in silver voice:
  "List, lustrous peacock in thy blue and gold!
  If mine it were, that sheeny fan of thine,
  Its golden feathers all I would pluck out,
  And decorate these nobles round about."

                             J. W. W.



  Rising at the banquet table,
  Now acclaim we our first toast,
  To our God's high honour drink we,
  Only of His glory think we--
  No first place to human boast!
  To celebrate the Lord's great glory--
  What equal duty to be found?
  Say, all ye who sit around,
  Save truly to have earned the dinner!

                             J. W. W.


  THE HOD[vZ]A[33]

  In Mostar was a sheker-meyteph,[34]
    Thirty young ladies were learning there,
  Omer-effendia was their hod[vz]a,
    And pretty Maru[vs]a their kalfa.[35]

  One day Maru[vs]a opened the Koran:
    "Tell us now, hod[vz]a, tell what is written!'
  Hod[vz]a reads silently, then he speaks loudly:
    "First page--The hod[vz]a is going to marry!

  "Willeth so Allah, so willeth hod[vz]a--thus on page two!
  And on page three--Whom will he marry, whom will he marry?
  Thus on page three--He'll marry the pretty Maru[vs]a."

                             J. W. W.



  Woe to the wolf that eats not flesh,
  Woe to the knight who drinks not wine,
  Woe to the maid who counteth love
      No gift divine.

  Woe to legs with a foolish head,
  And woe to gilt on an unclean bed.

  Woe to satin on humped shoulders.

  Woe to the gun in a fearsome hand,
  Woe to the strong in that village where
      But cowards stand.

  Woe to the mother-in-law in the house of her son-in-law.

  Woe to the wolf whom the ravens feed,
  And to the knight who children doth need
      Him to defend.

  Woe to the cock who strutteth on ice,
  Woe to the nightingale singing in the mill;
  In such a din, far better to be still!

                             J. W. W.



  A man ne'er born once told a tale
  To seven stout ghosts so hearty and hale;
  A ship went sailing 'mid greenwood trees,
  While the burning sun her crew did freeze.
  A horse danced o'er the billowy sea,
  From him a duck with hoofs did flee.
  From an empty cup two knights did quaff,
  Served by a maid whose head was off.
  Two wingless geese flew up in the sky,
  As a legless hero ran hard by;
  While near him scampered two roasted hares,
  Hotly pursued by three dogs in pairs.
  Then to the deaf man the dumb man spoke:
  "What a monstrous lie! but I hope it's a joke."

                             J. W. W.



  Listen, listen man of God,
  If thou wouldest serve thy God,
  In thy lifetime do thou good,
  And revere thine elder brother,
  So thy younger thee revere.
  Neither boast when fortune smileth,
  Nor complain in days of trouble;
  Grasp not an another's good;
  For when death befalleth man,
  Nought he takes from out the world,
  Save his deeds and crossed white hands--
  When he goeth to the Judgment,
  Where king's rank is unaccounted,
  Rich men can no more be proud,
  Poor men be no more despised.

                             J. W. W.



  With a cross I lay me down,
  With a cross I get me up,
  All day long it doth protect,
  And angels in the night are near;
  Archangels, they shall ward my death,
  And God's my guard till all things end.

                             J. W. W.



  To sleep I laid me down,
  Making my prayer to God;
  I called upon His angels;
  Heaven was unveiled to me;
  The Seraphim, they worshipped there,
  And prayed this prayer to Christ our Lord:
  "While he doth rest, all through his sleep,
  Frome visions dark do Thou him keep."

                             J. W. W.



  We pray unto the Heavenly Lord,
        Koledo, Koledo![36]
  Dew to send upon our fields,
  To give grain to wheat and maize,
        Koledo, Koledo!
  To give fruits in all the glades,
  To give colours to the flowers,
        Koledo, Koledo!
  To give health to sheep and cattle,
  And pardon, joy and song to all,
        Koledo, Koledo!

                             J. W. W.



  Yesternight was born a Child,
  But it passed from earth at morn,
  Unbaptized to heaven's door.
  "Open, heavenly watchman, open!"
  "Nay, foolish babe, thou must away!
  Sinful thou art, away, away!"

  "Foolish I am--but sinful, nay;
  Born yesternight, I died to-day;
  In the green forest I was born,
    Where no sponsor, where no priest;
    Therefore unbaptized I come!"

  Then the heavenly watcher answered:
  "Go thou yet a short way on;
  Go on, my babe, and thou shalt find
  Three watersprings; from one to drink,
  From one to wash, the third a font of blessing.
  The first shall breast-milk be to thee;
  The second is thy mother's tears,
  And from the third thou shalt baptized be,
  And joyful entrance gain to heaven."

                             J. W. W.



  Why trembleth so the earth,
  Set in this sphere of blue?
  Christ our God was born hereon,
  He, the Virgin's Holy Son,
  Christ Who heaven and earth created,
  And us sinners on the earth.
  In awe when He shall come to judge,
  We all shall stand before Him then,
  Both righteous and unrighteous men.

                             J. W. W.



  On angel wing in upward flight
  Rise soul and body of our Lord,
  When piercing heaven with high gaze,
  He calleth for one down to go,
  Down to darksome Golgotha,
  Where Mary bending near the Cross,
  Weepeth in bitter agony:
  "Let herald hasten now to tell her
  I am risen unto heaven."
  Great Michael heard, two angels sent,
  Swift to convey the tidings glad:
  "O thou of women all most blest,
  Let not thy heart with fear be filled;
  From the tomb thy Son is risen,
  Risen to the Father's throne,
  Saving men from Death's dominion."

                             J. W. W.



  The Blessed Mary sent an angel
  Unto John the Camel-girdled--
  "God's wish it is, and my wish too,
  That thou shouldst now my Son baptize."
  John went responsive to the river,
  Down into Jordan with the Christ,
  And there upon him with his Lord,
  Open wide the gate of heaven,
  The roseate sun did light the east,
  Sign of that Spirit-first of which spake John,
  Whose purging heat doth purify from sin,
  And in Jordan's flowing river
  Man's sin was taken all away!
  Our salvation is in heaven!
  Save, O God, all trusting souls,
  Save them from the devil's toils.

                             J. W. W.



  Sadly walked the Holy Mother
  On the Holy Mountain.
  Suddenly espied she something
  Brightly shining in the dust:
  The Cross, it was, of her own Son.
  With gentlest hands she caressed it,
  She did wash it with her tears,
  And after dried it with her hair.
  Kneeling then she uttered prayer.
  Speaking to the Holy Cross:
  "O sweet Cross, thou Cross of honour,
  Upon thee my Son has died,
  Hellish pains on thee He suffered,
  Hellish pains from those hot nails,
  To redeem our sinful souls.
  When He did upon thee bleed,
  His blood it fell in priceless seed,
  Whence there sprang all lovely flowers,
  And angels, coming down to gather,
  Made them into wreathes and garlands
  That they might adorn all heaven."

                             J. W. W.



  The Holy Virgin dreaming slept,
  And in her dream a great tree grew,
  Its branches from her own heart crept,
  O'er spreading earth, north, south, east, west,
  And piercing, spire-like, heaven's blue.
  Sore troubled by her dream she rose
  And sought straightway a saintly brother;
  "Hear Saint Basil, my brother hear!
  Let me tell my vision wondrous
  I dreamed and lo! a great tree grew,
  Its branches from my own heart crept,
  O'erspreading earth north, south, east, west,
  And towering up through heaven's blue.
  What saith this vision Saint, to you?"
  Then Basil answered to the Virgin:
  "O sister dear, thy vision's clear:
  'A tree did spring from thy warm heart?'
  To bear the Christ shall be thy part.
  'Those spreading branches covering all?'
  Sinners He'll save from evil's thrall.
  'That height spire-piercing heaven's blue?'
  To God the Father Christ shall rise
  Passing from earth and fleshly view."

                             J. W. W.



  Alas! my son, how fareth it with thee,
  In thy new dwelling, new and strange and dark?
  Strange thy dwelling without windows!
  At daybreak, Vinko, thy sad mother rose,
  Her earliest thought as but of thee,
  Her first thought, Vinko; Vinko her first call!
  Thorns are growing at the house-door,
  Cuckoos mourn around the house,
  Downcast thy brothers wait for thee,
  To talk with thee, to walk with thee--
  But now that ne'er can be.
  With head bent down and brow o'ercast,
  They make their way--for where art thou!
  In ashes our hearth fire is hidden,
  And when I saw the sun this morning,
  I thought: It is the moon,
  When thy sisters said to me:
  "Dim thine eyes, it is the sun!"
  "For me no sun," said I to them,
  "Pale in the dust now is my sun,
  No light have I above the earth."
  Down in thy dwelling, oh my son,
  Say, is it cold, my Sun, my Sun;
  If it be cold as is my breast
  It is too cold, too cold to rest.[37]

                             J. W. W.



  Where art thou flying? Where, oh where?
    My falcon?
  To what silent land and lone?
    Say, hero mine!
  Around thy friends and brothers ask me:
    How shall I answer them!
  "Where goes Perko? Tell us, Mother!"
    Woe to me, oh woe to me!
  If I answered, I might blame thee!
    How blame _thee_?
  Alway thou askedst me: May I go here--or should
    I stay?
    I knew thy way!
  But now thou askedst not; nor may I give thee
  "Yea" or "nay,"--
    O blank, blank day!
  Better, child, I went to thee, than to stay
    As mother here
    Having lost the light of day!

                             J. W. W.



  Wherefore do I marvel, wherefore need I wonder?
        Traveller the dearest!
  That through this lower world already thou hast sped,
        Ray of light the fleetest!
  Together we'd a little talk, but we looked for more,
        Thou my golden store!
  To the realms of heaven thou from earth art gone,
        Thou my heaven and earth!
  Thou thy flight hast taken, sure, to a land of flowers,
        Dearest of my flowers!
  Thy journey leadeth up to God, unto the blest in Paradise,
        Thou my Paradise!
  Thou shalt behold the Judgment Place,
        Merciful my son!
  Soon shalt reach those halls of rest,
        Thou who gav'st me labour!
  There shalt find the noble dead,
        Thou my sweetest life!
  Greet them all, the rich and poor,
        Best of all my riches!
  Salute the noblemen and princes.
        Thou my prince of princes!

                             J. W. W.



  O'er Neven woods the sun went down,
  The sun went down behind the forest,
  As came the heroes off the sea.
  The young wife counted anxiously,
  The wife of George the Hospodar,
  Counted the warriors, found them all,
  Save her three treasures who were missing.
  She could not find her Hospodar
  Nor the best man at their wedding,
  And the third treasure was not there;
  This treasure was her dearest brother.
  For her brave lord she cuts her tresses,
  For her best man she wounds her cheeks,
  And for her brother puts out both her eyes.
  She cuts her hair, it grows again;
  She wounds her cheeks, the wounds do heal;
  But none can heal those hurt blind eyes,
  Nor yet her heart for her lost brother.

                             J. W. W.



  Why art thou thus attired?
      My more than father!
  Why art thou thus bedight, so knightly armed?
      My fearless knight!
  Thou art departing for the city?
      My shining city!
  In order there to meet the lords and knights,
      O my wise lord!
  Or go'st thou to a marriage feast?
      My pride, my noble guest!
  --But why! thine eyes are closed to me!
      O closed, O closed to me!
  And--can it be!--thy mouth is bound!
      This black, black morning!
  If thou art gone, and com'st not back--
      How empty is the house!
  How is it thou couldst leave us so?
      To us, O woe, O woe!
  Far, far thy journey, and the end not here!
      But better is it there!
  Mother and father, they will greet thee there,
      Among the Blest!
  Thy brothers, too, and children in celestial light,--
      O blessed, blessed sight!
  Thee will they greet: we in their thoughts shall be,
      O heavenly harmony!
  But thou wilt stay, and ne'er return to us,
      O woe, O woe to us!

                             J. W. W.



  The king came to court our Margaret fair,
      Koledo, Koledo!
  And mother sang clear to our Margaret fair:
      Koledo, Koledo!
  "Oh, Margaret, haste! my daughter dear,
      Koledo, Koledo!
  The King, he has come to court you here,
      Koledo, Koledo!"
  Then thus sweet Margaret to mother's call:
      "Koledo, Koledo!
  I told you, mother mine, I told you,
      Koledo, Koledo!
  I want not kings, I want not knights,
      Koledo, Koledo!
  'Tis Jesus Himself alone doth bind me,
      Koledo, Koledo!
  I've vowed to Him, true shall He find me,
      Koledo, Koledo!"

                             J. W. W.



  A horse left his knight on Kossovo,
  On a dreadsome place on Kossovo.
  Finding his steed, the knight put question:
  "O horse of mine, my greatest treasure,
  Why hast thou left me here so lonely,
  In this deadsome place on Kossovo?
  What have I done thus to displease thee?
  Say, horse of mine, why didst thou leave me?
  Did press my saddle hard upon thee?
  Thy jewelled bridle, was it heavy?
  Or have I ridden thee too far?"
  To his knight the horse made answer:
  "Thy saddle pressed not hard upon me,
  Thy jewelled bridle was not heavy,
  Nor hast thou ridden me too far.
  But this it is that doth displease me:
  So oft thou tarriest at the tavern,
  While I am tethered at the door.
  Three maidens fair are dwelling there,
  Whose beauty makes thee all forgetful,
  While I am out here cold and fretful;
  Then angrily I paw the earth,
  And eat the grass down to its root,
  And drink the water dry as stone,
  While thou dost leave me here alone."

                             J. W. W.



  One day at Vidin they did dance the Kolo:
      "Oh, let me, mother, go and see!"
      "There is thy brother, go with him!"
      "My brother! he can stay at home,
      I do not want to go with him."

  One day at Vidin they did dance the Kolo:
      "Oh! let me, mother, go and see!"
      "There is thy father, go with him!"
      "Oh, let my father stay at home,
      I do not want to go with him."

  One day at Vidin they did dance the Kolo:
      "Oh! let me, mother, go and see!"
      "There is thy darling, go with him!"
      "Oh, come, my sweetheart, come with me!
      I'll dance the Kolo there with thee!"

                             J. W. W.



  How many towns from here to the coast?
  Seventy-seven sunlit towns,
  And villages green a thousand!
  And all of these I'd give for the street
  Where I my sweetheart first did meet,
  And e'en the street I'd give as the price
  To meet him again--aye, but for a trice!

                             J. W. W.



  Three maids were talking on a night,
  Upon a silvery moonlight night.
  They walked and talked of many things,
  They asked what each preferred to have.
  Two did listen to the eldest:
  "A castle white is what I'd like."
  Then two did hear the second say:
  "'Tis velvet blue with gold I like."
  Then two listened to the youngest:
  "A sweetheart true I would prefer.
  Should the castle all be ruined,
  My darling would rebuild it up;
  The velvet would with time wear out,
  My darling he could buy me more--
  A sweetheart true is richer store!"

                             J. W. W.



  A Bride most fair fed a swan and a lion,
  A swan and a lion and a falcon grey.
  To her came merchants from far away:
  "Sell us, sweet maid, your swan and your lion,
  This swan and this lion and falcon grey!"
  "Ye men from afar, go away, go away,
  My godfather cometh to see me wed,
  And this lion I tend till the time be sped;
  And for my true friend who best man shall be,
  This white swan I keep, and for none but he!
  But this falcon grey ye covet so much,
  'Tis my true love's own; none shall it touch."

                             J. W. W.



  A youth to God did pray,
    About his sweetheart dear,
  That he the gem might be
    Which trembled in her ear.

  He wished to be the beads
    Reposing on her breast,
  That he might hear her say
    That she loved him best.

  The prayer he prayed was heard
    A pearl beside the shore,
  His darling picked him up,
    And on her necklet bore.

  He listened and he heard
    How true her loving heart:
  She told the other maids
    She ne'er from him would part.

                             J. W. W.



  Sister was I of kingly brothers three,
  But now my kings are gone from me,
        Woe, woe, woe!

  Better kingdoms they are asking,
  Better work than this world's tasking,
  And God will grant it, where they go,
  Better service He'll bestow,
        But for me, alas! Oh! woe!

  So kingly brothers ne'er were known,
  Now my heart breaketh here alone.
  This world for me too dark is now,
  And I took dark for it, I trow!
        Woe, woe, woe!

                             J. W. W.



  Prayed of God the Karageorge's Lady!
  "Give me, God, to bear a maiden lovely,
  Patternized by Carapi['c]a Vasa,
  Grant us, O God, to choose name of beauty,
  Name of beauty, precious gold of mother.
  When shall come the baby, christen'd Goldie,
  Swaddling clothes her mother will then make her,
  Flowing clothes of linen for her infant,
  All of silk and cloth of gold so beauteous,
  As she's Goldie let gold bless her slumber.
  When she's come to her little cradle,
  Then her mother will make little cradle,
  Little cradle of gold will she make her,
  As she's Goldie, let cradle be golden.
  When Goldie is grown up to be spinner,
  Spinning-wheel her mother then will make her,
  Of gold will she make her golden spindle,
  As she's Goldie let her wheel be golden.
  When Goldie knows how to embroider,
  Golden frame her mother will then make her,
  Of gold will she make her spinning trinket,
  As she's Goldie, may her work be golden."[39]

                             B. S. S.



  O my girl, O my soul,
  What does mother say to you?
  Will she marry you to me?
  Her son-in-law can I be?
  She might give you, she might not,
  Thou art ever, ever mine!

                             B. S. S.



  Listen, my girl, listen, my beauty!
  Thy eyes are corals in the sea,
  I am a merchant on the sea
  Buying the riches of the sea.

  Listen, my girl, listen, my beauty!
  Thy teeth are tiniest pearls,
  I am a merchant on the sea
  Buying tiniest pearls of the sea.

  Listen, my girl, listen, my beauty!
  Thy hands are whiter than the wool,
  I am a merchant on the sea
  Trading in wool o'er the sea.

                             B. S. S.



  Falcon is winging high,
  But the fortress gates are higher;
  And Angela is watching there
  Aureoled in sunshine,
  Belted with the moonbeams,
  And flowering with the stars.

                             B. S. S.



  Little lad is wandering
  Through a wooded copse,
  Strutting with a green bough
  Walking down the slopes.
  Looking on a courtyard
  Sees young Jana sweeping:

  "O thou pearl, my sweet one,
  Whence my ring in keeping?"
  Thus she answered proudly:
  "May thy brother know, perchance,
  And should it bring God's blessing
  He'll join our wedding dance."

                             B. S. S.



  What shall I do, what shall I do?
  My nights are sleepless,
  My heart is so restless--
  Ah, sorrow, anew,
  I'll die,
  My love, for you.

                             B. S. S.



  When the sun sets at even,
  My love is just coming to me
  And when the moon has passed Heaven
  My lover is going from me.
  So the paths are all darken'd with shadow,
  Just as it should be, should be
  In shadow that no one can see.

                             B. S. S.



  For whom powders face so lovely, Beauty?
  For whom has she dropped her hair on shoulder,
  For whom is she wearing charms in bosom?
  Is it for Valach, or for a Magyar?
  It is not for Valach nor for Magyar,
  It is for this Stojan, mighty reaper,
  Who in Kolo always takes the leadship,
  When he's playing, every heart is touched.
  When he's dancing, dances like a puppet.

                             B. S. S.



  Hurry, hurry, robust harvesters,
  At field's end there's water and a maiden,
  Cooling water, and a maiden youthful,
  Drink ye water, and embrace your maiden.

                             B. S. S.



  These are long nights, these are long nights,
  For him who does not kiss black eyes,
  He it is who cannot slumber,
  For his heart is pierced with sorrow.

                             B. S. S.



  Oh, my girl, my sweetest flower,
  Curl not ends of eyebrow bower,
  Do not grieve your youthful laddies,
  As your way doth torment me:
  Leading horse, I wander barefoot--
  Carrying boots, I wander barefoot--
  Bearing bread, I cannot eat it--
  Treading water, cannot drink it.

                             B. S. S.



  Girlhood was my golden tsardom!
  Tsar was I while girlhood lasted;
  Ah, if I could turn me backward,
  Well I know how I'd live girlhood.

                             B. S. S.



  On the river Sitnitsa
  Little green fir standeth!
  Who's young and stripling,
  Youth with green youth sleepeth.
  Ah, but see that youthful Jovo,
  All alone is he,
  Seeing that the youthful Mara
  Joins him secretly.

                             B. S. S.



  Full and thick is shadow,
  Come, my love, to meadow,
  For I've a verdant garden,
  Red roses for a warden;
  Golden kerchief will I make thee,
  Christmas gift of love from me,
  To carry so splendidly
  In the memory of thy darling.

                             B. S. S.



  Oh my heart, I feel me sighing,
  Methinks that my lover calls me to him,
  But in truth my sweetheart's love hath ceased.
  Cried out falcon from a fir branch lofty:
  "O girl lovely! Sinfully you are speaking,
  Only past night your love called you lovely,
  Drinking wine unto your bounteous pleasure:
  'O my girl, my soul of me most dearest,
  I have made for thee a hiding,
  Half my bed and half my arm,
  Half a pillow, half a cover,
  Half a cushion, heart of mine in bosom.'"

                             B. S. S.



  O girl of my soul, my soul,
  Take this bunch of rosebuds neat,
  Should thy bouquet fade and fail,
  Come once more, my soul, to me
  I will pluck again for thee.

                             B. S. S.



  Darling sweetheart on his free arm sleeping,
  Makes he motion to sound gong in waking:
  "Awake, my dear, dearer than mine own eyes,
  Last night I a strange dream was a-dreaming:
  My fez swept 'way on the troubled water,
  Pearls were strewing richly in my lap-robe,
  And my watch in pieces four was broken."
  Sweetheart waking, calmly speaking this-wise:
  "Easy is it to interpret dreaming,
  That your fez was swept by troubled water
  Means you're to go forth to battle army;
  That pearls richly scatter'd in your lap-robe
  Must mean our tears, thine with mine are mingling;
  That your watch in pieces four was broken
  Means in truth that our hearts will be breaking
  When we're forced to take leave of each other."

                             B. S. S.



  Cyclone downward rumbling,
  All the castle trembling.
  In castle is a girl
  Crying, never ceasing:
  "Alas, how long nights are!
  When sleeping near to papa;
  On nine soft mattresses,
  On nine softest cushions,
  'Neath nine fine coverlets."

  "Alas, how long nights are!
  When sleeping near to mother;
  On nine soft mattresses,
  On nine softest cushions,
  'Neath nine fine coverlets."

  "Alas, how long nights are!
  When sleeping near to brother;
  On nine soft mattresses,
  On nine softest cushions,
  'Neath nine fine coverlets."

  "Alas, how long nights are!
  When sleeping near to sister;
  On nine soft mattresses,
  On nine softest cushions,
  'Neath nine fine coverlets."

  Cyclone downward rumbling,
  All the castle trembling.
  In castle is a girl
  Crying, never ceasing:
  "Alas, how short the nights are!
  Sleeping with my darling,
  Just on single mattress,
  On a single pillow,
  'Neath a single cover."

                             B. S. S.



  'Wakening Lazar dawn was stealing:
  "Get up, Lazar; rise up, Lazar!
  Horse of thine has thirst for water."
  Forthwith up leaps Lazar quickly,
  Grasps his horse's bridle lightly,
  Leading horse, he goes to water,
  But at water's edge was maiden,
  With his foot he touched hers gently,
  Kissed the while her black eyes sparkling,
  Clasping her about the bosom.

                             B. S. S.



  When I lived a girl with mother,
  Good advice was given me often,
  That I should not drink the red wine,
  That I should not wear green wreathlets,
  That I shouldn't kiss a stranger.
    But I poor girl deeply thinking over:
  There's no red cheek without red wine sparkling,
  There's no pleasure without green wreath glistening,
  Neither amour without stranger wooer.

                             B. S. S.



  In a garden works a maiden,
  Digging furrow, water decoy,
  To the garden 'luring water,
  To give drink to early flowers,
  Early flowers, whitest basil,
  Whitest basil, gold carnation;
  Where she's furrowing, there she's sleeping.
  Putting head in sweetest basil,
  Hands are lying in carnations,
  Feet are plac'd in shallow hollow,
  Covered with a fragile kerchief;
  Beat upon her dew-drops slender,
  Like a rain-soaked watermelon.
  Now there comes a callow youth,
  Callow youth and not yet married,
  Grasping two posts, leaps the railing,
  Springing lightly into garden,
  Then commences soliloquizing:
  "Should I pluck a bunch of flowers?
  Should I kiss a sleeping maiden?
  Bunch of flowers lasts till mid-day,
  But a maiden lasts forever."

                             B. S. S.



  Breeze fans up o'er roses 'long the meadow,
  To the rich white tent of Jovo, youthful,
  Where there's Jovo with Maria sitting:
  Jovo writing and Maria sewing;
  Ink runs short for Jovo where he's writing,
  And Maria golden thread is losing,
  Then to Maria, Jovo thus is speaking:
  "Oh, my Maria, mine own cherish'd lov'd one!
  Is my soul to thee a dear possession?
  For a pillow is my right hand doughty?"
  Mara to him gently whispering slowly:
  "Believe me, Jovo, darling of my heart-throb,
  Dearer to me is thy soul much dearer,
  Than are altogether four of brothers;
  Softer to me thy own right hand doughty,
  Than four softest pillows of my choosing."

                             B. S. S.



  Planted rose-tree midst of Novi-Sad town,
  O my rose-bud, O my sorrow rose tree,
  Cannot pick you, neither give you sweetheart:
  For my sweetie vents her anger on me,
  Gliding past my courtyard stealthy,
  Like the slave who passes Turkish graveyard.

                             B. S. S.



  O my darling, be not wrathful;
  Should I, myself, show my hot displeasure,
  All of Bosnia never could appease us,
  Not all Bosnia nor the Hercegovina.

                             B. S. S.



  Alas hero I'm with arrow pierced,
  O my Yetsa, thy white face is guilty,
  Thy black eye-balls are the piercing arrows,
  Thy white arms are now a very torment.
  Come, my love bird, to my white court homing,
  Come to heal my heart's own sore displeasure,
  To bind up my wounds with thy throat's whiteness,
  To salve suffering with thy honey kisses.

                             B. S. S.



  Up and down went youth in mountain,
  In a garden, girl round fountain;
      On her threw he hawthorn red,--
      Lightly answering, blackthorn sped,--
  Think you they intend to kill?
  Nought but kisses that they will.

                             B. S. S.



  Little girl, the small black-eyed,
  Hero, wondering stupefied:
      'Had we means of barter!
      To lead us near together!
  I my life long would not quit her,
  None could make our friendship wither.'

                             B. S. S.



  Oh, my jeweller, for your trade's sake, listen!
  Make me hero, all of gold my hero,
  I will spoil him, as his mother dares not,
  I will kiss him until dawns the twilight,
  Till day breaks ever will caress him.

                             B. S. S.



  Lo! behold behind the forest
  Someone loudly screams--
  "'Tis a voice," says youthful hero,
  "Girlish-like it seems."
  When behold! he looked and spied her,
  Tiny girl, tree-bound they'd tied her,
  With fine silken seams.
  Hear! she prays of youthful hero, dazzled by his might:
  "Come to me, thou youthful hero, O most beauteous, wonderknight.
  Come to free me, youthful hero, and I'll be thy sister true."
  Thus she spake, but laughing he, "O, there's one at home like you."
  "Come to free me then, my brother; sister-in-law I'll be no other."
  ('But at home she sits by mother.')
  "Then I'll be thy golden bride.
  Take me to thy meadows wide,
  Take me to thy castles white,
  Take me, take me from this plight."
  So she spake to gallant lover,
  Hovering near and just above her,
  Clasps her in his arms to love her--
  Such a gallant knight!

                             B. S. S.



  All young heroes here save mine,
  All young gallant heroes brave.
  O! that I were sure he'd tarry,
  Lingering in some sickness grave,
  Rather than the wish to marry
  Sends him courting another maid.
  O! may he be too ill to travel,
  May him dread illness cause to pine,
  Rather than to court another,
  Never, never to be mine.

                             B. S. S.



  O maiden, thou gentlest rose
  When thou wert growing what didst thou behold?
  Hast thou observed a pine-tree growing
  Or the slender, proud fir-tree blowing,
  Or did'st gaze at my youngest brother?--

  O glad, young hero, brilliant Sun!
  Never at the pine-tree blowing
  Have I look'd in wonder gazing
  Neither at the slender fir-tree,
  Nor thy youngest brother, free,
  Rather have I grown to suit thee,
  Tender knight, to suit but thee.

                             B. S. S.


[Footnote 1: This song as also those signed "S. J. B." has been
transversified and published by (Sir) John Bowring, "Servian Popular
Poetry," London, 1827.]

[Footnote 2: The Serbian peasants, especially women, firmly believe that
saints, parents, rulers, bishops and clergymen have the privilege of
cursing and that the person to whom the curse is addressed is bound to
undergo the consequences pronounced by the curser. There are several
instances in the Serbian heroic ballads by which it is proven that the
national Serbian bards, and indeed all the peasants who participated in
the composition of their epic poetry, believe that curses pronounced by
privileged persons always come true. Thus in the ballad _Uros and
Mrnjavcevici_ King Vukasin of Macedonia, angry with his son Marko
Kralyevich because the latter, when chosen for arbiter, said that the
imperial crown belonged to Carevic Uros and not to him (Vukasin),

  "O son Marko, may God smother thee!
  Mayest thou have no tomb, nor progeny
  May thy soul not leave thy body
  Before thou hast served the Turkish emperor!"

While Marko's kingly father cursed him, Carevic Uros blesses him thus:

  "O my Kum Marko, God second thee!
  Thy face shine at divan
  Thy sabre smother in duels!
  May no one excel thee in heroism
  Thy name be reverently remembered.
  As long as Sun and Moon shine!"

And the bard finishes his poem with, "Whatever they said, it came true."

Another oral tradition tells us how a nobleman _Velimir Bogati_ (Velimir
the Rich) who once refused hospitality to Knez Lazar, the emperor of
Serbia (1389), was cursed by the noble prince and how Velimir's first
son indeed drowned himself in the river Lepenica, his second son fell
from his horse and died in consequence of the accident and how his
third, and now only son, was imprisoned by his father in one of the
remotest towers of his castle in order to avoid any danger of
experiencing the prince's curse. One day, however, Velimir Bogati
brought to his imprisoned son some grapes from his own vineyard, in
order that the poor young fellow should at least know what time of the
year it was, and lo! while the boy was eating the grapes a small viper
jumped out of the bunch and mortally bit him. The news of the sudden
death of the young nobleman spread rapidly amongst the neighboring
villages and fortified the peasants in their belief that one cannot
escape the curse.

Par extension a _kletva_ (curse) can be effective even if pronounced, as
in the above song, by other persons than those privileged.

Another saga narrates how a peasant greedily coveted and wished to
appropriate a corn field that belonged to his neighbour and, in order to
attain his evil end, he buried in the middle of that field his only son
whom he had previously taught what to say when interrogated. The judge
and the plaintiffs came with the defender to the spot and the
mischievous peasant in order to mystify those present, exclaimed: "O
black earth, speak of thy own free will, to whom dost thou rightly

"I belong to thee," the voice from below was heard.

The lawful owner, hearing this, started aback. And the judge's verdict
appointed the field to belong to the covetous and wrong claimant. And
the parties dispersed in wonder.

Then the father began to dig the ground in order to disinter his son.
But--there was not the shadow of one! He called loudly and the child
answered the call but the voice from beneath the earth was ever fainter
and fainter. Finally the child turned to a mole.

Thus became, according to Serbian tradition, the first mole. (Edit.)]

[Footnote 3: Sir John Bowring, although a remarkable transversifier and
at times a true interpreter of popular songs of the Slavs, has taken too
much of that _licentia poetica_ in his rendering of this, one of the
most beautiful lyrics ever composed by Serbian peasant women. The reader
may judge for himself, when comparing Sir John Bowring's liberal
transversification with the following _verbatim_ translation (which he,
himself, felt absolutely indispensable to reproduce) what a great
injustice is inflicted upon the popular songs of any people by even the
most conscientious transversifier and how infinitely less untrue to the
original a rendering can be. (Edit.)

Of this little poem, which Goethe calls "wonderful," the following is an
almost literal translation:

  Full of wine, white branches of the vine-trees
  To white Buda's fortress white had clung them:
  No! it was no vine-tree, white and pregnant!
  No! it was a pair of faithful lovers,
  From their early youth betrothed together.
  Now they are compell'd to part untimely.
  One address'd the other at their parting,
  "Go! my soul! burst out and leave my bosom!
  Thou wilt find a hedge-surrounded garden,
  And a red-rose branch within the garden;
  Pluck a rose from off the branch, and place it,
  Place it on thy heart, within thy bosom;
  Then behold!--ev'n as that rose is fading,
  Fades my heart within thy heart thou loved one!"
  And thus answer'd then the other lover:
  "Thou, my soul! turn back a few short paces.
  There thou wilt discern a verdant forest;
  In it is a fount of crystal water;
  In the fount there is a block of marble;
  On the marble block a golden goblet;
  In the goblet thou wilt find a snow-ball.
  Love! take out that snow-ball from the goblet,
  Lay it on thy heart within thy bosom;
  See it melt--and as it melts, my lov'd one!
  So my heart within thy heart is melting."

                             (S. J. B.)

[Footnote 4: This song has obviously been composed by a Serbian woman of
Mohammedan faith. A large percentage of Serbians in Bosnia, Hercegovina
and even Macedonia are still adhering to the Koran. Ali Bey surely must
have been a Serbian bey. (Edit.)]

[Footnote 5: Smilia, the _grapharium arenarium_, or "lovely love." Also
a woman's name. (S. J. B.)]

[Footnote 6: This song is sung at the close of the harvest, when all the
reapers are gathered together. Half as many reeds as the number of
persons present are so bound that no one can distinguish the two ends
which belong to the same reed. Each man takes one end of the reeds on
one side, each of the women takes one end at the other. The withes that
bind the reeds are severed, and the couples that hold the same reed kiss
one another. (S. J. B.)]

[Footnote 7: _Kalpak_, the fur cap of the Serbians. (S. J. B.)]

[Footnote 8: This is one of the songs sung at the breaking up of the
company, addressed to the giver of the festival. (S. J. B.)]

[Footnote 9: _Musko cedo_ (male child). The male sex is in Serbia, as
elsewhere, deemed entitled to more care and attention than the other.
(S. J. B.)]

[Footnote 10: A handkerchief embroidered and given by a girl to a boy is
considered in Jugoslavia as a symbol of love and faith. (Edit.)]

[Footnote 11: As unfortunately Serbian parents often, very often, select
the husband of their marriageable daughter, the poor girl, unless
disobedient and rebellious, meekly accedes to the choice even if her
bridegroom should be an old man. This is obviously a remnant of Turkish
dominion in Serbia. (Edit.)]

[Footnote 12: _Zvezda_, star, is of the feminine gender. (S. J. B.)]

[Footnote 13: Sun is feminine in Serbian. (S. J. B.)]

[Footnote 14: The leech, _Sanguisuga_; but in Serbian there is no
disagreeable association with the word. It is the name usually employed
to describe the beauty of the eyebrows, as swallows' wings are the
simile used for eyelashes. (S. J. B.)]

[Footnote 15:  _Visnja_, the universal Slavonian name of the Vistula
cherry-tree. The _Cerasum apronianum_ of Linné. (S. J. B.)]

[Footnote 16: The _Vila_ nearly corresponds to the _Peri_ of the
Persians, and the _Wöla_ of the Scandinavians. (S. J. B.)]

[Footnote 17: _Radisa_ is the name of a man. _Radovanje_--joy. (S. J.

[Footnote 18: _Lepota_ is the Serbian word for beauty. (S. J. B.)]

[Footnote 19: I shall be accused of having _decorated_ this. The
translation is more free than I have generally given; but in order to
show how little I have deviated from the thought of the original, I give
the conclusion. (S. J. B.)

  "Ako bi te u pjesmu pjevala,
  Pjesma ide od usta do usta,
  Pa ce doci u pogana usta;
  Ako bi te u rukave vezla,
  Rukav ce se odma izderati,
  Pa ce tvoje ime poginuti;
  Ako bi te u knjigu pisala
  Knjiga ide od ruke do ruke,
  Pa ce doci u pogane ruke."

                             Vuk i. p. 200

[Footnote 20: The popular national dance of the Serbians. (S. J. B.)]

[Footnote 21: _Bosiljak_, the _Ocimum basilicum_ of Linné (S. J. B.)]

[Footnote 22: As the Serbians have had during the long Ottoman rule to
attend to much sterner duties than that of cultivating literature and
art, and, as the greater part of the population (sixty per cent at
least) are even to this day completely illiterate, ability to read and
write is still considered an 'art' with the peasantry. (Edit.)]

[Footnote 23: _Kaloper_, balsamita vulgaris of Linné. (S. J. B.)]

[Footnote 24: _Vila_ (pronounced veelah) is with the Serbians a female
deity (Muse or Grace) of incomparable beauty and tenderness. But she can
be very hostile to mortals. (Cf. note 16. Edit.)]

[Footnote 25: The cuckoo (_Kukavica_), according to Serbian tradition,
was a maiden who mourned so unceasingly for a dead brother, that she was
changed into a bird, and thence continues without rest her melancholy
note. A Serbian girl who has lost a brother never hears a cuckoo without
shedding tears.--"I a poor cuckoo," is equivalent to "woe is me!" (S. J.

[Footnote 26: _Ban_ is obviously a corrupt form of the Polish or Cech or
Ruthenian title _Pan_, meaning "Mr." or, in direct address, "Sir." To
this day that word has been conserved only by those Serbians who have
lived in the Austro-Hungarian territory called Croatia, and is applied
as a title to their political chief. (Edit.)]

[Footnote 27: Lado is the vocative of _Lada_, the goddess of love, in
the old Slavonian mythology. _Lado!_ is a melancholy interjection in
Serbian, whereas _Lele!_ the vocative of Lela, the god of love, has
frequently a cheerful association. _Polela_ (after love) the goddess of
marriage, is also sometimes apostrophised. Talvj remarks, that _Ljad_,
in Russian, signifies misfortune. In common parlance, _Lele mene_
(Serbian) imports "Woe is me!" (S. J. B.)]

[Footnote 28: _Mlinar_, the miller. (S. J. B.)]

[Footnote 29: Wesely imagines that this expression has been introduced
into Serbian poetry by the influence of the interesting ballad on the
marriage of Maxim Cernojevic (see _Quarterly Review_ for December,
1826). The intimate intercourse which existed between Serbia and Venice
may account for the phraseology. (S. J. B.)]

[Footnote 30: This song, as also others signed "O. M.", has been
transversified by Robert Bulwer Lytton (Owen Meredith), "Serbske Pesme;
or National Songs of Serbia," London, 1861. (Edit.)]

[Footnote 31: _Kolo_, signifying literally a wheel, is the generic term
for all the Serbian national dances in most of which the dancers, either
taking hands, or united each to each by a handkerchief tied round the
waist or to the girdle, form a ring and advance or retreat to and from
the centre to a monotonous music, either of the voice or some very
simple wind instruments. Both sexes take part in these dances, which are
frequently in the open air. (O. M.)]

[Footnote 32: This song as also those signed "J. W. W.", has been
transversified and published by J. W. Wiles, "Serbian Songs and Poems:
Chords of the Yugoslav Harp," New York, 1917.]

[Footnote 33: _Hodza_, i. e. Mohammedan priest. (J. W. W.)]

[Footnote 34: Turkish seminary. (J. W. W.)]

[Footnote 35: _Kalfa_, governess. (J. W. W.)]

[Footnote 36: _Koledó_: In ancient times the Serbians, as all the Slavs,
often used this word as a refrain in their bucolic songs. It was an
address to _Ledo_, the ancient Slav divinity who presided over the
process of fertility and protected fields and flowers. (J. W. W.)]

[Footnote 37: Loud lamentations, by women rather than men, are an
ancient custom among the Serbs. These dirges are again and again
extemporized with spontaneous poetic feeling. Girls let down their hair
and lament in the orchards and precincts of the house. (J. W. W.)]

[Footnote 38: This song, as well as others signed "B. S. S.," has been
rendered into English by the Editor.]

[Footnote 39: "The Prayer of Karageorge's Lady" is number 685 of Vol. I
of Vuk Karadzic's collection.  (Edition of 1891.)

[Footnote 40: No. 428 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 41: No. 445 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 42: No. 468 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 43: No. 474 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 44: No. 581 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 45: No. 792 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 46: No. 765 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 47: No. 247 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 48: No. 314 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 49: No. 338 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 50: No. 409 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 51: No. 446 Vol. V. (Edition of 1898).]

[Footnote 52: No. 298 Vol. V. (Edition of 1898).]

[Footnote 53: No. 279 Vol. V. (Edition of 1898).]

[Footnote 54: No. 335 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 55: No. 309 Vol. V. (Edition of 1898).]

[Footnote 56: No. 294 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 57: No. 466 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 58: No. 459 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 59: No. 453 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 60: No. 287 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 61: No. 472 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 62: No. 473 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 63: No. 482 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 64: No. 487 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 65: No. 488 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 66: No. 491 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 67: No. 300 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 68: No. 359 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

[Footnote 69: No. 422 Vol. I. (Edition of 1891).]

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