‘Wherefore play with words so foolish?
No such fate will e’er befall;
In the coffee-house I’d rather
Serve, envelop’d in my shawl,
Rather than be thine at all.’
“But I am the coffee boiler,
Thee, my maiden, will I call.”
‘Wherefore play with words so foolish?
That can never, never be;
Rather o’er the field I’ll wander,
Changed into a quail, than ever,
Ever give myself to thee.’
“But I am a vigorous sportsman,
And thou wilt belong to me.”
‘Play not, youth! with words so foolish,
That can never, never be;
Rather to a fish I’d change me,
Dive me deep beneath the sea,
Rather than belong to thee.’
“But I am the finest network,
Which into the sea I’ll cast;
Mine thou art, and mine thou shalt be,—
Yes! thou must be mine at last;
Be it here, or be it there,
Mine thou must be every where.”
MAID AWAKING.
Lovely maiden gather’d roses,
Sleep overtook her then;
Pass’d a youth and call’d the maiden,
Waked the maid again:
“Wake! O wake! thou lovely maiden,
Why art slumbering now?
All the rosy wreaths are fading,
Fading on thy brow.
He, thy heart’s own love, will marry;
He will break his vow!”
‘Let him marry, let him marry,
I shall not complain;
But the thunderbolt of heav’n
Shall destroy him then.’
MOTHER’S LOVE.
On the balcony young Jovan sported,
While he sported, lo! it crash’d beneath him,
And he fell,—his right arm broke in falling!
Who shall find a surgeon for the sufferer?
Lo! the Vila of the mountain sends one,
But the recompense he asks is heavy;
Her white hand demands he of the mother,—
Of the sister all her silken ringlets,—
Of the wife he asks her pearl-strung necklace.
Freely gave her hand young Jovan’s mother,
Freely gave her silken hair his sister,
But his wife refus’d her pearly treasure:—
“Nay! I will not give my pearl-strung necklace,
For it was a present of my father.”
Anger then incens’d the Mountain-Vila,
Into Jovan’s wounds she pour’d her poison,
And he died,—Alas! for thee, poor mother!
Then began the melancholy cuckoos,—[199]
Cuckoos then began their funeral dirges;
One pour’d out her mournful plaints unceasing,
One at morning mourn’d, and mourn’d at ev’ning,
And the third whene’er sad thoughts came o’er her.
Tell me which is the unceasing mourner?
’Tis the sorrowing mother of young Jovan.
Which at morning mourns and late at evening?
’Tis the grieving sister of young Jovan.
Which when melancholy thoughts come o’er her?
’Tis the youthful wife,—the wife of Jovan.