Green leaf of the poplar grove, Tell me, prythee, whence comes love? From the eyes or from the brows, Or from the crimson lips? Can a peasant taste thereof As one honey sips? This is the lament put into the mouth of a girl who has disgraced herself so far as to marry a tzigan (gipsy). Swallows, swallows, little sisters— Sisters, seek my mother dear; Tell her from her daughter here, That she send her kirtle red, For a raven she has wed, And a large thick veil for shroud When the watch-dogs bark aloud. Her brave dresses, that she take them, Into one rude bundle make them, Throw them in the street and burn them, Utterly to ashes turn them. Or here again a woman’s complaint:— When the world despises me, Only God has any pity. Thou too, doubting, comest not near me, Willst not know and willst not hear me. Only one, my little dove, Knew my sorrow, brought me love: My sweet turtle dove, I know, If her other half should go, Would not mate with any other, Or fly from one tree to another. This is a more passionate vein, with some adumbrations of a story in it:— “Hide, O God, the moon in a mist, Let me revel as I list; Wrap like a shroud his face in a cloud, Till my lover has kissed and kissed.”— “Green leaf of the vine’s long train, I go, but in autumn shall come again.”— “If you go for a month away, Mad you’ll find me on your home-coming day; If you go away for a year, Not mad you’ll find me but laid on my bier. Then to my grave I bid you come, Scatter dust upon my tomb, Take a look within At the death of sin; As I lie at your feet And at Death’s deceit.” Most of the poems collected are short ones, of a kind not dissimilar from the specimens given above. There are, however, some pieces which approach more nearly to the ballad form, which are considerably longer, and contain some sort of story. Our specimens would not be representative unless we included one poem of this kind. Let this ballad stand upon its own merits, merely as a representative one, without attempting to explain or apologize for its obscurities and want of harmony. The inequality of the metre here will represent the, to our ears, irregularity of the original:— Over the mountain, bathed in the dew, Is standing a little cottage new, With windows that face the rising sun, And door that leads toward the valley down. In it was held a meeting gay Of all the girls of the village one day. And they sang and they spun, And they laughed—all but one, The hostess’ young daughter: From her came no laughter As from every other. Then thus spake her mother: “Little daughter, what fails thee? What is it that ails thee? Art thou sick, little daughter, Or is it heart-pain?”