Said her daughter, “Refrain, Little mother, seek not to know why I am sad; lest I curse in reply. For love’s pain I have proved; I had once one beloved. He was tall, little mother, Fairer than any other. His eyebrows black as a raven’s wing, In an arch long drawn as is a ring, Skin soft as silk, white as the froth of milk, His eyes were like the dark wild-plum, His hair was like ripe corn in the sun. Securely my beloved slept, Safe was my beloved kept From the sun’s strong rays, From the wind of wintry days. And I sent my love To the fair of Brachov To buy for me linen, Fine thread for my spinning, And rich clothes to wear, Gold beads for my hair.— Thence he sent with a message, my mother, With a message the moon in the night, That I was to be his stepmother: Then I sent to him in reply The sun, for I said that he should Go wed whomsoever he would. With the leaf of the hazel-nut tree He sent his answer to me, That I should his stepmother be; Little mother, but dear little mother, Can I marry him to another, Or shall I curse him, shall I curse him, my mother?“ “Be not mad, little daughter, go be His stepmother, as he tells thee: And you, Gypsy, Gypsy, Bring my carriage to me, For I am the grand stepmother.” “But mother, oh mother, say how Shall I speak, and what name call him now?” “My beloved, my stepson, My heart’s love, my cherished one.” “And her, O my mother, what word Shall I give her, what name?” “My stepdaughter, abhorred, The whole world’s shame.” “Then, my mother, what shall I take him? What gift shall I make him?” “A handkerchief fine, little daughter, Bread of white wheat, for thy loved one to eat, And a glass of wine, my daughter.” “And what take _her_, little mother, What gift shall I make _her_?” “A kerchief of thorns, little daughter; A loaf of black bread for her whom he wed, And a cup of poison, my daughter!” * * * * * *