SLAVIC.
AN OLD BALLAD.
The maiden went for water
To the well o’er the meadow away;
She there could draw no water,
So thick the frost it lay.
The mother she grew angry,
She had it long to bemoan;
“O daughter mine, O daughter mine,
I would thou wert a stone!”
The maiden’s water-pitcher
Grew marble instantly,
And she herself, the maiden,
Became a maple tree.
There came one day two lads,
Two minstrels young they were;
“We’ve traveled far, my brother,
Such a maple we saw nowhere.
“Come let us cut a fiddle,
One fiddle for me and you,
And from the same fine maple,
For each one, fiddlesticks two.”
They cut into the maple—
Then splashed the blood so red;
The lads fell to the ground,
So sore were they afraid.
Then spake from within the maiden:
“Wherefore afraid are you?
Cut out of me one fiddle,
And for each one fiddlesticks two.
“Then go and play right sadly,
To my mother’s door begone,
And sing: Here is thy daughter
Whom thou didst curse to stone.”
The lads they went, and sadly
Their song to play began;
The mother when she heard
Right to the window ran.
“O lads, dear lads, be silent,
Do not my pain increase,
For since I’ve lost my daughter,
My pain doth never cease!”
Translated by Mrs. Robinson.