When at evening I softly sing my lay, That the wand'rer hears, as he goes his way-- My heart's best beloved, he hears it not. There, where on Sunday I go alone To the old, old well with the milk-white stone, Where by the fence, in a nook forgot, Rises a spring in the daisied grass, That makes whoso drink of it love--alas! My heart's best beloved, he drinks it not. There, by my window, where day by day, When the sunbeams first brighten the morning gray, I lean and dream of my weary lot, And wait his coming, and softly cry Because of love's longing that makes one die-- My heart's best beloved, he dieth not. A peculiar character in the Roumanian songs is that of the Heiduck, a sort of combination, it would seem, of the knight-errant and the brigand, with all the legendary attributes of beauty, strength, courage, and generosity of the half-fabulous popular heroes of all nations. The Song of the Heiduck has all the buoyant spirit and gayety appropriate to such a figure, but is overshadowed also by a sort of elfin sadness and the doom of a supernatural fate, which is chiefly to be found in those nations which have a tinge of oriental mysticism, and is a marked feature of the Roumanian folk-songs. The Celtic mysticism, where it exists, is more strictly religious. THE HEIDUCK'S SONG. _I tell the forest the wonders I see in my dreams And the forest loves to hear the tale of my dreaming More than the song of birds, More than the murmur of leaves._ The huts had well-nigh beguiled me to stay, for the windows Stood wide, and the smiles of the maidens shone out from within, But the Heiduck am I--and I love the far-stretching roads And the plain, and my galloping steed. My mother gave birth to me, sure, on a sunshiny morning, And had I but never known love, ah, how happy were I! I sing at the hour when the moon climbs above the horizon; The tales that the aged folk know, I can tell, every one, And I make the young dance, when I sing, to the tune of my ballads. For I a strange woman have loved; She comes every night to me now, and she kisses my forehead, And asks if I love her still. She carries a knife in her girdle--her eyes have a glitter Like daggers--her hand is as white as the veil of a bride; But her voice I have never heard--yet know I full surely, She asks if I love her still. In token thereof I have given her up my girdle, My cap with its feathers gay, My mantle with broid'ry brave, and my glitt'ring daggers. And my songs, I have given them all to her, one by one, Yet the gayest bring no smile to her face, and the saddest Are powerless to make her sad.