And my heart shuts tight with its woes. The shining star adorns the night, In vain for thee my heart has beat, My star for me has quenched its light, But in my heart its ray is sweet. At Dobreesen flowers a fair rose-tree; It bears a lovely perfumed rose, But what is that lovely rose worth to me, If far beyond my reach it blows. The young postilion is sounding his horn, He brings a letter from my dear. But her letter of gold leaves me forlorn, Since she comes not to meet me here. Down there under the steep hillside, A small apple-tree blooms in pride. Its flowers are fair; its fruit is sweet, A little maiden sits at its feet. She tresses garlands of red and white; On her breast they turn to silver bright. She lifts her eyes to the heavens vast, And sees a wide road winding past. Its borders two like silver gleam, The middle is a golden stream. A lamb walks there with curly bell, On each curl point tinkles a bell. The wild duck broods in the reedy grass, In the meadow rich ripens the corn, But the place where lives a faithful lass I never have found since I was born. In the lonesome night the stars are falling, The young man drags his feet toward the house. Heavy in his heart are voices calling, And hatred of the world his miseries arouse. In the lonesome night the stars are falling, In the white mansion the candle glimmers red. Flowers strew the couch. Oh, the sight appalling! The brown girl in her shroud lies stretched upon her bed. They are sweeping the wide street. The soldiers start marching down A maid of sixteen, red and sweet, Is following out of town. The young captain turns and speaks "What this means I must know." She answers with tear-wet cheeks, "I follow where'er you go." The roads are thick with snow, The black steed gallops wide. His bridle reins hang low In his mad master's ride. The brigand on the steed Breathes deep, and sadly sighs, "I dreamed not, in my need, She'd sell me to the spies. "Of all the brigands cursed, Who rob on the wide plain, The soldiers seek me first, To bind me with a chain. "My father was a thief, My grandfather likewise. To honest life's relief, How can such seed arise?" FOLK-SONGS OF ROUMANIA.