You 'll trim with nails of brass?" "My darling, on your coffin new Gold nails shall be thick as grass." "Oh, tell me, will you lay me In the graveyard's grassy glade?" "My darling, I will lay you In my own rose garden's shade." "Oh, tell me, will you mourn me, With three maids to see your tears? " My darling, I will mourn you ' Until all the wide world hears." THE THREE BRIGANDS. Always ranging night and day, The three brigands bold Are seeking their prey, In the forest old. In the forest old they meet a Greek, And the Greek they slay, From his full wagon Bear booty away. Always ranging on the way, The three brigands bold Reach a roadside tavern's Sheltering fold. One cries aloud, "Ho, landlady gay, Bring in your good wine." "My daughter shall serve, And I too am fine." They eat and drink, The three brigands bold, But the youngest thief Sits pallid and cold, To himself he says, "My cradle should A coffin have made. My infant linen For a shroud been laid, And my swaddling cord My body swayed." THE BELLS OF TARJA. From bells of Tarja the sad notes flow: Faded the sweetheart of the brave youth. Three doves are ringing the bells of woe, To mourn their sister in love and truth. With lily flowers they painted her shroud, And that is why't is so pure and white. Her love bends o'er it, and weeps aloud; His heart's black tears its radiance blight. They planted rosemary on her grave; Weeping he followed his sweetheart's hearse. His tears were dew where grave grasses wave: "Return my love or have my curse!" Her linen chemise none will wash now, Except the rain of his weeping eyes; The tangled curls on her pallid brow No one will caress with soothing sighs. Again at Tarja the bells ring slow-- For the youth himself they sadly toll. He wept so much for his dove laid low, To-day they weep his own parting soul. Young maids, young maids of Tarja's plum grove, By constant presence pay love's debts. For a young man's heart breaks for his dove, While a young girl's heart weeps and forgets. THE BETROTHED. "In the great court of thy small dwelling, My dear rose, what doest thou?" "I cook my pullets; my heart I'm telling My love for his supper will come but now." "In the great court of thy small dwelling, My dear rose, what doest thou?" "I trim my dress; my heart I'm telling My love will be coming with shining brow," "In the great court of thy small dwelling,