Then hence she goes, by the small plank over the river The plank that sways to her step. The willows bow down their heads, and bend as she passes... And morning cometh, and findeth me poor and trembling, Since she hath taken my all from me, even my songs. Yet is she not content, nor will cease from asking, Whether I love her still. _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._ Almost all the songs have the refrain, as in this example, which is not, necessarily, directly associated with the subject of the song, but is suggested by some incident, circumstance, or scene brought to the mind at the time of the recital. As often in the old Scotch ballads, it adds a weird and touching effect like a dominant note in music, or a symbolical background to a picture. A marked feature in these folk-songs of Roumania, as in those of all other nations, is the place which fighting has in them, the songs of the soldiers who are going to battle for their native land, and the emotions of heroism, courage, and self-devotion; but as in all these songs there is an underlying element of melancholy, mysticism, and refined and delicate feeling, quite different from the savage ferocity, heartiness, and humor of more northern nations, and there is no trace whatever of the farcical rudeness and cunning which is attached to some of the heroes of the Scandinavian ballads. The sentiments expressed are those of singular refinement for a primitive people, and the general tone of the soldier songs is one of sadness and content in death, rather than of the fierce joy and hope of the conflict, as in the following characteristic specimen:-- "I AM CONTENT." _A spindle of hazel-wood had I; Into the mill-stream it fell one day The water has brought it me lack no more._ As he lay a-dying the soldier spake-- "I am content. Let my mother be told in the village there, And my bride in the hut be told, That they must pray with folded hands, With folded hands for me." The soldier is dead--and with folded hands, His bride and his mother pray. On the field of battle they dug his grave, And red with his life-blood the earth was dyed, The earth they laid him in. The sun looked down on him there and spake, "I am content." And flowers bloomed thickly upon his grave, And were glad they blossomed there. And when the wind in the treetops roared, The soldier asked from the deep, dark grave, "Did the banner flutter then?"