FOLKSONGS.
“It has been said of me, that I
Am atheist, and God deny:
Yet even now I pray intent,
To read thy heart-beats I am bent.”
OF MANY A GIRL.
Of many a girl I have been fond;
I’ve loved the brown one, loved the blonde.
My sweetheart’s now of gipsy race,
With fiery eyes and dusky face.
Dear gipsy girl, I never knew
A girl as sweet as you.
None with my gipsy maid compares,
Despite the tattered gown she wears.
Of her, one never must complain,
And never pleads for kiss in vain.
She is not bold, she is not shy,
For her I must not sigh.
My gipsy sweetheart’s tent, at night
Requires no such a thing as light.
At night to light it up, suffice
Her own two big and lustrous eyes.
Those eyes of hers, to my delight,
The blackest night make bright.
A STAR IS BUT A STAR.
A star is but a star that bright it shine,
A maid’s a maid that men for her shall pine.
I have been born, — I do believe, —
To love them madly, and — to grieve.
That leafy crown it have the tree’s a tree,
The wind’s a wind to blow o’er land and sea.
My heart’s a heart with love to glow,
But when deceived . . . it breaketh, though.
MY LITTLE FLUTE.
My little flute from willow’s twig I made,
The weeping tree in lonely graveyard swayed.
I carved it sitting on a graveyard stone,
Are you amazed, that mournful is its tone?
And there my own star set, . . . no more its spark
Shall gleam for me and henceforth all is dark.
Is it then strange, that sad my song’s refrain?
E’en my desire to live I can’t sustain.
And when, at eve, the herd strolls slowly home,
I feel impelled to yonder grave to roam...
And when the moon’s pale face doth slowly rise,
My flute sends forth heartrending songs and sighs.
So long will sorrow hold me in its bane,
So long will broken-hearted I remain:
Until my soul, together with my sighs.
Into a better world, heavenward flies.
Heigh-ho! Heigh! with sorrows now away!
For I my Violet shall see to-day!
And even though I blush, I’ll rest
My head upon her virgin breast.
WERE I A BROOKLET.
Were I a brooklet clear, I’d flow
Where my own sweetheart dwells, I know
On sultry summer eves she’d lave
In my clear, cool, refreshing wave.
Were I, were I a leaf-crowned tree
In her own garden I would be;
Would shield her beauteous fare, by day
From midday sunlight’s burning ray.
Were I, were I a fragrant flower,
I’d blossom in her verdant bower;
And plucking me from rosebush-tree,
Her bosom’s snow be dew for me.
Were I a gentle breeze, my dove,
In whispers low I’d tell my love,
When sweet you dream, ah! then I’d sip
A thousand kisses from your lip.
And if a nightingale were I,
To my love’s garden I would fly;
To die, perchance, with sorrow, where
My heart I could leave to her care.
MY HAT I PULLED...
My hat I pulled down o’er my eyes,
The flower thereto pinned soon dies,
And I must weep:
My youth had passed by ere begun.
And soon my life’s course will be run,
I feel it deep.
Friend, take an iron bar and go
To yonder graves, and deal a blow
To them, why do they not forbear
What’s good and fair.
’Tis better not! Touch not the tomb
Where flowers grow with sweet perfume
No! touch it not!
But rather seek a lonely spot
For both of us a burial plot,
And then, some day,
We’ll mark it with a leafless spray,
To all the world let it convey:
How we but mocked, and gay at play
We lost our day.
I CURSE THEE NOT.
I curse thee not, ’tis not my way,
But mournfully I sigh all day;
In heaven, to where my sighs ascend,
Thou’ll’t have thy doings to defend.
In spite of brightest, starlit eve.
I can but darkness dense perceive;
And sadly in the gloom I grope,
Forsaken am even by hope.
What could inspire me and give
To me some real pleasure to live;
I ne’er received, — ask what I would, —
The others have all that is good.
I would not care, would not protest, —
God reigns, and He knows what is best;
But that my sweetheart suffers too,
Is why my woe I can’t subdue.
THE BOBOLINK’S NEST.
The bobolink’s nest’s ’neath the reed,
On good soil grows good grain indeed.
But where the faithful maidens grow,
That soil I — to my greatest woe, —
Do not know.
My eyes are filled with tears, because
Another man to his heart draws
My Rose; this is what I deplore!
She’ll faithful be for evermore
She often swore!
If true love’s claims thou could’st forget,
Why hast thou caught me in thy net?
Why hast thou not left me alone,
Another’s plighted love could own
And bliss had known.
Because I’m poor thou faithless art,
And give’st to some one else thy heart.
I cease for thee to weep and pine,
Some day for me, by grace divine,
The sun will shine!
I WOULD COME TO SEE THEE.
I would come to see thee, sweetheart, did I dare,
If thy mother would not guard thee with such care.
Dearest darling, I’d do nothing but request;
Let my weary bead rest on thy virgin breast.
Nevermore I in a short cloak go around,
Nor will I in my sweetheart’s courtyard be found.
When few days ago I entered, — to be sure, —
The old dame’s tongue lashing I had to endure.
I’m the good-for-nothing fellow of this place,
All the dogs bark at me and after me race,
God bless you my native town, I go away!
Nevermore shall dogs at my heels bark and bay.
IN MORNING’S DAWN.
When this maiden water carries,
Too long on the road she tarries;
In morning’s dawn, ’fore morning’s break,
Before my house the rosebuds wake.
And this maiden never more glad
Than when kissed is by her own ’lad,
In morning’s dawn, ’fore morning’s break,
Before my house the rosebuds wake.
THY IMAGE.
Thy image in my dreams I see,
Awake, thy image comes to me.
No human language’s adequate,
To tell my sufferings how great.
Around me all’s dark as the tomb,
My soul is overcast with gloom:
Since thou, without a last adieu,
Left me, who was thy lover true.
HOW I WOULD LIKE TO PLOUGH.
How I would like the field to plough,
Drive team of oxen six, if thou,
Sweet loving rose, wert here just now
To hold for me in line the plough.
To hold for me in line the plough,
I wish, sweet darling Rose, if thou
Wert here with me, I’d like to plough
With team of oxen six just now.
THE RAVEN ON GOOD FRIDAY LAVES.
The raven on Good Friday laves his brood,
The folks to me but wilth contempt allude.
Then let the world to me say face to face:
If e’er in life I did what’s mean or base.
I’d come to thee, my darling, every eve,
If I, thy mother to watch, would not perceive.
I’d do naught else, — could I be at your side:
My weary head in thy pure bosom hide.
I had a sweetheart once, but it pleased God
To take her; she now rests beneath the sod;
I wept as rain falls on a summer’s day,
And broken-hearted I remain for aye.
I had a sweet rose once, I have one now;
I plucked it not, I left it on the bough:
A cruel fate us from each other tore,
She’s on the Tisza’s, I on Danube’s shore.
WARNING.
Do not, sweet rose, go in the field,
Too weak thou art the scythe to yield;
Them amidst thy hands cut ’s what I dread,
And who then baketh me soft bread?
Come, darling, sit here on my knee;
Let people talk, let people see;
I care naught for their envious ways,
I hold thee in love’s strong embrace.
’Tis I the rose-tree planted, but
To pluck the rose ’s another’s lot.
I knew a maiden, — loved her first, —
Another quenches her love’s thirst.
THE STARRY SKY.
The starry sky I fondly view,
I love the rose-leaf gemmed with dew;
But rose-leaf and the starry skies
Are naught to my own sweetheart’s eyes.
The starry sky I fondly viewed,
My own eyes now with tears bedewed.
My heart is filled with deepfelt woe,
For she was fair, but faithless, though.
MY FATHER’S DEAD.
My father’s dead, my mother’s dead,
The wrath of God’s on me, I dread.
And as a stork whom all disown,
Am orphaned, lonely and alone.
How heartrendingly toll the bells,
How solemn are the mournful knells:
Of my own sweetheart’s death they tell,
To whom I said no last “farewell.”
Oh, mother, saintly mother, dear,
Who nursed me with a love sincere:
Why could not I have died, while young,
Before my heart by love was wrung?
IN FOREST AND IN MEADOW GREEN.
In forest and in meadow green
A bird hath laid its nest,
Its wings are blue with white between,
And with a golden crest.
Wait, pretty bird; wait, my dear dove,
A moment, I request;
Be it the will of God above:
You’ll on my bosom rest.
THREE STARS ARE IN THE SKY.
Three stars are in the sky in one straight line,
Three pretty maidens are sweethearts of mine.
One of the three, an orphan, I love best,
Whom her own mother left with me to rest.
Three melons grow on one stalk, all mature,
Three orphaned sweethearts have I, sweet and pure.
One of the three, ah, me! how pale her face,
I much prefer to hold in my embrace.
The mulberry has three lobed leaves and three
Fair maidens listened in my true love’s plea.
The berry leaves I tear with a light heart,
With two of my sweethearts though I must part.
YOU CANNOT BID THE FLOWER.
You cannot bid the flower not bloom; it thrives
When, on mild zephyrs’ wings, the spring arrives.
A girl is spring, her love a scented flower,
Which buds and blooms ’neath balmy air and shower.
When first I saw thee, dear, I fell in love
With thy fair soul the tender charm thereof.
With that soul’s beauty, which I ever see
Reflected in thine eyes bewitchingly.
The question rises sometimes in my breast —
Shall I, or others by thy love be blessed?
These thoughts pursue each other in my mind,
As sun rays’ clouds, when blows the autumn wind.
Knew I another waited thy embrace,
Could kiss the milk and roses of thy face,
My broken heart I far away would bear,
Or end in death the depth of my despair.
Shine down on me, O star, so born to bless!
And light the dreary night of my distress!
O my heart’s pearl! if thou can’st love me, love,
And blessing shall be thine from God above.
NOT A MOTHER.
Not a mother bore thee,
Beauteous rose-tree wore thee,
Crimson Whitsun’ morning,
At the dawn’s first warning.
Were thy rose-cheeks tender,
Near me in their splendor,
I, as flowers, would fold them
To my breast and hold them.
TO SLEEP, TO SLEEP.
To sleep, to sleep, to sweetly sleep
When rising sun doth upward creep;
But sweetest is the sleep when I,
In golden dream my dove espy.
Her kiss is stronger than the wine;
Sweeter than sugar, I opine;
That love is sweetest — each one says —
When I my dove hold in embrace!
The fairest flower is the rose:
True happiness from marriage flows;
And nowhere blooms more fair the rose
Than where another with it grows.
The dove its mate feeds not with flowers,
But kisses sweet upon it showers;
Gift of a kiss a kiss’ rewards —
Draw them from thy own heart’s deep hoards!
STRIKE UP, GIPSY!
AND HEART-RENDING —
Strike up Gipsy! And heart-rending
Must thy changeful song be now —
I thy melody am lending
In my pale and clouded brow;
In my eyes that droop and languish;
In my worn and faded cheek
Read thou all the chords of anguish
Which my wearied heart would speak!
Love a golden-foliaged Eden?
Love a land of joy and sleep? —
From love’s portals, faint and bleeding,
Strayed I forth, alone to weep;
Thorns and thistles are my burden,
Roses crown no more my hair:
Only sorrow is my guerdon,
Only sorrow and despair!
MARY, DEAR.
Mary dear, Mary dear,
How I love thy sweet eyes —
Fall, white lids, for I fear
At thy glance my heart flies —
Lay thy hand on my breast;
Hollow sound replies —
Fled my heart to the lure
Of thy laughing eyes!
At the dawn, at noontide,
At the dusk, at the night,
In my heart naught beside
Thy face is pictured bright.
And my soul, kneeling, prays —
“Give her the lily of Peace,
My heart’s peace that she stole;
Me from my pain release!”
HEAREST THOU ME,
KŐRÖSHER MAID.
Hearest thou me, Körösher maid, Körösher maid,
Körösher maid;
Has thy skirt with ruffles been made, with ruffles
been made, with ruffles been made?
Oh, my, my, bless her little heart,
Loving, greet her, I could eat her,
Yet from me did part.
In my garden fair flowers grow, sweet flowers
grow, bright flowers grow,
By their sweet scent each one I know, each one I
know, each one I know;
Now, now, now, hear my solemn vow,
God above me knows I love thee,
Come and kiss me now.
THEE I LOVE.
My one, and only one sweet flower, I love thee;
In this wide world no one else so dear to me;
Pure is my love, as is the sun
The warming rays of which arrest
The icy frost of winter, which
Weighs on the violet’s breast.
Within thy beauteous eyes dwells heaven, my dove,
And, with them, thou hast enchanted me, my love!
Thy ruby lips as honey sweet,
Thy pearly teeth, thy raven hair
Are dear to me; their magic charm
Enslaved me forever and e’er.
I WILL YET SEE THE DAY.
I will yet see the day, I know,
When past my house you’ll weeping go,
Your heart will beat when at the door,
Where you were welcome heretofore.
I will yet see the day, I know,
When past my house you’ll weeping go,
I’ll even speak to you, although,
Not as I used to, long ago!
If ’neath my window now you pass
None speak to you, you cruel lass;
And those who do, ask with a sneer
How oft your loves you change a year.
And if I daily saw you go
Around; each time, with a new beau,
E’en if I saw you kiss them, I
Believe, false maid, I would not sigh.
THE LEAF IS FALLING.
The leaf is falling from the bough;
Darling sweetheart, I must go!
Fare thee well, my sweet one,
Fare thee well, my dear one,
Pretty little dove!
How yellow is the moon on high,
Just as pale art thou and I.
Fare thee well, my sweet one,
Fare thee well, my dear one,
Pretty little dove!
The dew-drops fall on branches dry,
Hot tears roll from thine and mine eye.
Fare thee well, my sweet one,
Fare thee well, my dear one.
Pretty little dove!
The rose may bloom yet on the tree,
We two each other may yet see.
Fare thee well, my sweet one,
Fare thee well, my dear one,
Pretty little dove!
BEAUTEOUS, BRIGTHLY
SHINING STAR.
Beauteous, brightly shining star;
If I could be where you now are,
I’d gaze not on the stream that flows,
I’d gaze into the eyes of Rose.
Beauteous, brightly shining star.
Cometh she, be her guiding star;
Can you my sweetest Rose-bud see,
Has she set out to come to me?
Beauteous, brightly shining star.
Who from your height can see afar.
Is faithless she, then hide your light.
Let her her way lose in the night.
NINE IT HAS STRUCK, EVENING HAS COME.
Nine it has struck, the eve has come;
Were it not dark I’d go now home;
Sweet Rosebud, light a candle, pray,
To throw its light upon my way
Towards home.
Sweet Rose, wide ope thy leafy gate,
My weary horse and I here wait;
Feed well my horse with oats and hay,
We can’t remain many a day
Here around.
I’ve opened wide my leafy gate,
Thy horse lead to the stable strait;
I’ll feed thy horse with oats and hay,
Thy horse and thou can two months stay
Here with me.
THE MAID I LOVED.
The maid I loved is no more true;
She was the richest gem I knew:
But since she cannot be my wife
I have grown weary of my life,
I have grown weary of my life.
By day and night I think of her,
I’ll soon be in my sepulchre:
My body and my soul are ill,
And hope again I never will,
And hope again I never will.
I weep in secret, that none may
To me cold words of solace say;
Hope and assuaging words are naught
To hearts with lonely sorrow fraught,
To hearts with lonely sorrow fraught!
SWALLOW BEAT AGAINST HER PANE.
Swallow beat against her pane
In the dreary autumn rain;
On silver leaf I — to her quote —
In letters gold, her sweet name wrote.
On diamond stone I paint her face,
In ruby jewel-box then encase;
I’ll cause then that her name and fame
The world shall lovingly exclaim.
INTO THE KITCHEN DOOR I STROLLED.
Into the kitchen door I strolled,
To light my pipe I then made bold,
That is to say, ’twould have been lit
Had there not been full fire in it.
And, since my pipe was lit, I went
For something very different.
Simply because a maiden fair
By chance I had espied in there.
It was her task the fire to light
And sooth, she did the task aright:
But, O, my heart! Her lovely eyes
Were flaming in more brilliant wise.
As I stepped in she looked at me
Bewitchingly, bewilderingly —
My burning pipe went out, but, O!
My sleeping heart burned all aglow.
O’ER ALL THE GLOBE.
O’er all the globe, beneath the sky,
None is so orphaned as poor I;
Even the birds bemoan my fate,
Trees bend their twigs compassionate.
Beneath that distant mountain’s face
Upon the rocks I pass my days,
And where I can be all alone
I never cease to weep and moan.
I curse thee not — it’s not my way;
But if the sighs I sigh all day
To heaven arise, wilt thou, sweet maid,
Answer the misery thou’st made?
IN MY GARDEN.
In my garden I once planted rosemarys,
Day and night, with tears to wet them did not cease;
Notwithstanding dry became their leaves,
Orphaned he who for lost sweetheart grieves.
Any one who has no loving, sweetheart-queen
Let him go with his woe to the forests green;
On the bark of trees let him engrave
That to him sad fate no sweetheart gave.
Any one who has no sweetheart, look for one;
Let him look and seek until the best be won;
I found on the sweetest, dearest maid
Since then all my sorrows are allayed.
THEY HAVE LAID HIS CORPSE.
They have laid him low on his lonely bier,
And there’s never a soul to mourn him —
For she is dead whom he held must dear
And dead is she that bore him!
But I, who live — far more sad than his
Is the fate that broods above me;
For I never knew a mother’s kiss,
And never a maid would love me!
THROUGH THE VILLAGE.
Through the village, all the way,
A gipsy band for me doth play;
A flask of wine I wave in glee,
I dance in maddest revelry.
“O gipsy, play thy saddest airs.
That I may weep away my cares:
But when yon window we do reach,
Play joyous tunes, I thee beseech.”
“The maid that lives there is my star,
The star that shot from me afar:
She left me, strives from me to hide,
And blooms at other lovers’ side.”
“This is her window. Gipsy, play
A tune which is surpassing gay!
Let not the false maid hear or see
That I can feel her falsity!”
DOWN INTO THE CORN-FIELD.
Down into the corn-field, wearied from her flight,
Sinks the song-lark slowly from the farthest height;
There her mate receives her, sheltering with his wing —
She forgets her sorrow, she forgets to sing!
Had I one to love me I no more would write
Of the pain that wakes me, lonely in the night —
Only woe is vocal; joy and love are still —
Ah, for love I’m starving; die I must and will!
A MOUSE-HUED STEED I HAD OF OLD.
A mouse-hued steed I had of old,
At Szeged the alispan sold;
I was not there — the glass they tossed:
Well, more on Mohács’s field was lost!
I had a house once; it was burned;
Who owns the lot I have not learned,
Though Vásárhely’s clerk engrossed!
Well, more on Mohács’s field was lost!
I had a love; I wept a year
For her, my daily dead so dear;
She lives, the wretch — a new life’s crossed,
Well, more on Mohács’s field was lost!
IN THE LOWLAND.
In the lowland I live in a lowly hut,
A poor fisher-lad to be is my sad lot;
Gentle maiden, come to rest awhile to me,
My old mother will take loving care of thee.
Threatening clouds gather above us on the high,
And a good rain easy ’tis to prophesy;
Nut-brown maid, thy silken scarf will spoil by rain,
To thy snow-white shoulders chills will cause yet pain.
Jingling gold and silver I have none; I call
This plain, modest hut my own and that is all.
In my heart there lives a heart with love replete,
Which responsive love in a heart longs to meet.
I care not for flattery, the maid replied.
Gold and silver ne’er could make me satisfied.
In thy hut with thy true heart content I’d be,
Love me honest is all e’er I ask of thee.
Flown away have all the dark clouds of the sky;
My beloved one, I am going now, good-bye!
May God bless thee, happy be always thy lot;
Here and there remember me, forget me not.
IT’S RAINING.
It’s raining, raining, raining!
A kiss shower it is,
And my lips enjoy it.
Each loving kiss a bliss.
The torrent brings a vivid
And shooting flash of light,
The lightning shoots, the rays
Of your two eyes so bright.
I hear the thunder rolling,
Rolls like a heavy gun;
Good-bye, my darling girl;
Thy mother comes — I run!
THROUGH THE WOODS.
Through the woods I gaily romp and roam
Watching for that brown maid, walking home,
Brown maid’s heart is pierced by Cupid’s dart;
Consolation I bring to her heart.
Through the fields I gaily romp and roam,
Watching for that brown lad, going home.
Brown lad is a blooming cedar tree,
I the blossom on it which you see.
Beauteous is the woodland when it’s green,
When in it cooing doves are still seen.
The wood-pigeon in the forest’s shade
Pines to be loved just as a sweet maid.
THE LOWERING CLOUDS.
The lovering clouds are dense on high,
Autumnal rain pours from the sky,
The sere leaves from the branches fall,
The nightingale still sings through all.
Late is the hour: the night has set,
Fair little brown maid, wak’st thou yet?
Say, hearest thou the nightingale,
Who sings her plaintive, sweet love-tale?
The rain in torrents poureth still,
Dost hear the nightingale’s sad trill?
The hearts of all, who hear her song,
In yearning love do ever long.
If thou art not asleep, brown maid,
Hearken what the bird hath said,
For this sad bird is my fond love,
My soul, breathed forth, that floats above.
LOOK, MY ROSE.
Look, my row, in my eyes;
Read what thought in them lies.
Do they not tell thee,
Do they not tell thee
That all the flowers fair
Envy thy charms so rare?
Yea, thine eyes bid me, “Go!
Trust him not if thou would’st go
Free from shame, free from woe.
Have I not read well?
Long hast thou tempted me —
I defy thee and flee!”
Sits quietly the dove,
While her mate coos his love;
I am fond as he and true.
Thou may’st believe me, dear;
Thou must believe me, dear!
Flutter thou shalt not far —
Coupled by Fate we are!
HOW BRIGHT THE STARS.
How bright the stars which shine within the sky!
A brighter star is yet my sweetheart’s eye.
And all the stars I’d bring down from above,
It then this maid would give to me her love.
Beside the stars, the star of love’s a sun;
Thy lustrous eyes have thee my true love won.
And if thy heart thou should’st to me deny,
Beneath the stars of heaven let me die.
ON TISZA’S SHORE.
On fair shores where the Tisza flows,
I seek and follow my sweet rose;
Tisza, Tisza, tell me, where
Shall I seek my rose so fair?
Is merry Tisza stream, thy wave —
Because my rose did in thee lave?
Ever since she dipped in here
Thy water’s all the more clear.
Where is my rose, tell me, I pray?
Drinks she from thee, thy water may
Honey-sweet be; does she yearn
To my bosom to return?
It’s envy, stream, that keeps thee mute,
Thy flowing waves fair isles salute
I, a desert island seem
In my sorrows flowing stream.
DAINTY, SWEET FORGET-ME-NOT.
Dainty, sweet, blue forget-me-not
Grows upon the streamlet’s shore.
Sick and sore at heart, I will not
Live much longer any more.
When in my grave, when in my grave,
Loving token to the dead,
May a wreath of beauteous flowers
Of forget-me-nots be spread.
Dainty, sweet, blue forget-me-nots
Faithful, true love indicate;
Many a blonde, many a brown,
Lad, betrayed me. Sad my fate!
Place a wreath of forget-me-nots
O’er the grave wherein I lie;
Let it prove to all the world
They were faithless and not I.
DANUBE’S WATERS, TISZA’S WATERS.
Danube’s water, Tisza’s water are full of mud,
Very angry, very angry, is my rosebud;
Darling rosebud, be of good cheer:
I’ll marry thee when the vintage ’s near.
Danube’s water, Tisza’s water very turbid,
Sleepy miller, sleepy miller, shuts his eyelid;
My dear miller, open your eye:
Bolting-hutch, bolting-hutch, must not run dry.
Bolting-hutch, bolting-hutch is running dry,
Miller’s walking, miller’s walking through the green rye.
My dear miller, come home, say I.
Bolting-hutch, bolting-hutch, must not run dry.
A ROSEBUSH ON THE HILLSIDE GROWS.
A rosebush on the hillside grows;
Come, darling, on my breast repose.
Thy love then whisper in my ear,
Let me that joyful story hear!
Within the Danube’s rushing waves,
The sun, it seems, its shadows laves,
And o'er them sways and glows in glee,
As I sway thee upon my knee.
It has been said of me, that I
Am atheist, and God deny;
Yet even now I pray intent,
To read thy heart-beats I am bent.
MOURNFUL IS THE DAY.
Mournful is the day and mournful I have grown,
False are all the pretty maidens I have known.
They are as fickle in their love,
As changeful as the clouds above.
Lack-a-day.
Dark and overcast my days are: I know why;
For the maid I truly loved I vainly sigh.
She now loves another lad.
That’s the reason I am sad.
Lack-a-day.
Truly orphaned, none so poor as I am now,
Never to her my true love can I avow.
Not for e’er this will be so:
Brighter days will dawn, I know.
Lack-a-day.
THOU ART, THOU ART.
Thou art, thou art, my pretty maid,
The bright light of my eye:
Thou art, thou art of all my life
The star of hope on high.
And soon this only hope of mine
Must fade and then succumb;
I’ll ne’er he happy in this life.
Nor in the world to come.
I linger long beside the lake
Where willow trees abound,
And there my resting place I make
Where solitude is found.
Listlessly drooping sway the boughs
Of the sad willow tree;
The pinions of my downcast soul
These branches seem to be.
The fleeting bird has fled the cold
Autumnal winds that blow,
Could I but also fly and leave
My heart’s most heavy woe!
I cannot flee because my love
And this, my love, no time or space
Is as my woe so great,
Can e’er annihilate.
AT THE FUNERAL.
At the funeral sounds the dirge!
Who goes now with dust to merge?
No more an earth-bound captive he,
Happier far than I can be!
Here, beneath my window borne,
How many over him do mourn!
Why can I not buried be?
No one then would weep for me!
ROSY, ROSY, ROSY.
Rosy, rosy, rosy,
Rosy, rosy, rosy,
Rose-red wine into my glass;
Rosy, rosy, rosy,
Rosy, rosy, rosy,
On my knees a rosy lass.
Soft and round her arm,
Fired by her charm,
I’d like to embrace her;
Says she, “That’s no way, sir!”
Do not, do not, do not,
Do not, do not, do not,
On Good Friday don’t carouse!
Do not, do not, do not,
Do not, do not, do not,
Do not kiss your neighbour’s spouse.
Smitten by her charm,
I thought it were no harm
Even if I kissed her;
Says she, “No”; I missed her!
THE SWALLOW SWIFTLY FLIES.
The swallow swiftly flies,
But in the eve it hies
To its nest.
I hie in blissful rest
Upon my sweetheart’s breast.
Where’s in this wide world, where,
The maid who can compare
With Rose, so sweet and fair?
I never did betray
And never will; alway
I’ll be true.
Yes, baby dear, to you,
My love-pledge I renew.
For you, sweetheart, I’d scorn
The sweetest girl e’er born
In crimson Whitsun’ morn.
FOREST, FOREST.
Forest, forest, in the forest’s darkest shade
In sad sour, the nightingale her woe conveyed.
Sad and tearful is her song, which bringeth straight
Back to her, when heard at last, her loving mate.
The nightingale’s woe is fully justified,
Sad the heart which for true love hath vainly sighed;
But hundred times more painful is the thought to me
That I never must confess my love to thee.
I love thee, my darling rosebud, love but thee,
What avails it, if, alas, thine I can’t be!
Never, never, can I be thine; we must part,
Oh, my God, my hive for thee will break my heart.
HOW VAST THIS WORLD!
How vast this world in which we move,
And thou, how small thou art, my dove!
But if thou didst belong to me
The world I would not take for thee.
Thou art the sun, but I the night,
Full of deep gloom, deprived of light.
But should our hearts together meet,
A glorious dawn my life would greet.
Ah! look not on me; close thine eyes;
My soul beneath thy glances dies;
Yet, since thou can’st not love me, dear,
Let my bereaved soul perish here.
COME IN, MY ROSE!
Come inside, my sweet rose; come, my own;
I am in here, but I’m all alone;
Two gipsy lads play sweet, tuneful airs,
All alone I dance to shift my cares.
Come inside, my sweet rose; come, my own;
I am in here but I’m all alone:
Come in, pretty maiden, be my guest;
Soft is the couch on which thou’lt rest.
Empty is the barrel, naught to sip —
Sweetheart, let me kiss thy ruby lip;
Kiss me, darling; I give then, with glee,
For each one ten, and myself to thee.
IN ALL THE WORLD ONE SWEET GIRL.
In all the world one girl I love,
My dainty rose, my cooing dove;
God in His love gave me thy heart,
My blooming rose, my soul thou art.
True love’s the fairest flower that grows,
As fragrant as thy lips, my rose;
No rose yields so much honey, though,
As from thy ruby lips doth flow.
Love doth a mighty force control
Over a deeply feeling soul;
With heart and soul I love but thee;
Can there a life more blissful be?
The pale moon brightly shines on high,
The maid from dreams wakes with a cry;
A horrid dream disturbs her rest.
Faithless he seemed whom she loved best.
ON AN ASS THE SHEPHERD RIDES.
On an ass the shepherd rides,
And his feet reach to the ground;
Great his stature, but more great
Is his sorrow so profound.
On the sward his flute he played,
With his browsing flock near by,
When the sudden news is brought
That his sweetheart soon must die.
Quick he mounts his ass and rides,
Hastens toward her home in fear;
But, alas! too late he comes —
Death has been before him here.
What can the poor fellow do
In his bitterness and woe,
But upon his donkey’s head
Deal a heavy, sounding blow!
BARGAIN.
“Come, shepherd boy, poor shepherd boy, give ear,
Behold this heavy purse with gold, filled here;
Thy poverty I’ll purchase now from thee,
If thou, with it, thy love will give to me.”
“If but an earnest were this glittering gold,
Thy proffer magnified an hundredfold —
Nay, if the world on top thou shouldest lay —
My pretty one thou could’st not take away!”
IT’S AFTER EASTER.
It’s after Easter, since two weeks,
A pretty girl the garden seeks;
Hurry, Rosebud, and come straight
To the rosebush near the gate,
Where I wait.
Green are the leaves and cool the shade,
The cooing doves there all day played;
Hurry, Rosebud, grant the bliss;
All my work the better is
When we kiss.
Inconstant lad, where thorns do grow, —
Into the thicket, — I’ll not go.
Faithful swain I have inside,
I will be his happy bride
Whitsuntide.
MAROSH RIVER GENTLY FLOWS.
Marosh River’s water gently flows,
Sweetheart, come and on my breast repose.
No, no, no! I have another lover true,
After vintage he for me will sue.
That thou’ lov’st me, sweetheart, why deny?
That thou shouldst love was ordained on high.
Wherefore say’st thou, darling rosebud, nay?
All the wide world knows it anyway.
Why deny, my sweetheart, what is true?
Since it gives my life its rosy hue?
Boundless is the joy thy love conveys,
Star-filled are my nights and bright my days.
A CAP OF RED VELVET.
A cap of velvet red I wear,
Of happy life I have full share;
My sweetheart thought it meet and fit
A beauteous wreath to pin to it.
To tie the wreath, my rose did well,
How oft I kissed her I can’t tell;
For every wreath thou bindest me
A hundred times will I kiss thee.
Babe, ope thy door; good Magyar stock —
No Slav is he who now doth knock.
Thou art so slow, dost know, perchance,
’Tis I who clamor for entrance?
Indeed, I know, but fears have I
No maid can on a lad rely;
He swears, “I love thee, and but thee!”
Then leaves her to her misery.
BEAUTEOUS IS THE FOREST.
Beauteous is the forest.
Fair and green,
When the cooing doves are
In it seen.
Beauteous is the maid, to
Good inclined,
When to whispered words she’s
Not unkind.
Beauteous is the greensward
Of the vale,
When its furrows hide the
Timid quail;
Beauteous is the maid when
Light of heart,
And the cooing pigeon’s
Counterpart.
THE SUN GIVES LIFE.
The sun gives life, and yet the rose it killeth:
I cannot help but love thee — passion thrilleth;
And even could I help, I would so never;
Thou art my world, my life, my all, forever.
For thee my rancor lights on every maiden,
Since thou by treachery my soul hast laden.
My anger also would be black above thee
If I did not so desperately love thee.
When, long ago, we were alone together
Thy blue eyes compassed me like sunlit weather,
I thought that heaven milord I then was viewing
But, ah! ’twas hell’s blue flame for my undoing.
Yet, if it should be so, I care or heed not;
I love thee, though for me thy false heart plead not.
Falsely I spake, that love was burnt out saying,
For now I love thee, even to my slaying.
ALL NIGHT LONG I DRANK GOOD WINE.
All night long I drank good wine,
Dearest, sweetest love of mine!
That I’m tipsy I opine,
Dearest, sweetest love of mine!
I can hardly stand upright,
Yet I’m loved by maiden bright,
Dearest, sweetest love of mine!
The wine I drank last night was red,
Dearest, sweetest, love of mine!
To-day I’ll drink white wine instead,
Dearest, sweetest love of mine!
Though I’m tipsy now, no scorning!
I’ll be sober in the morning,
Dearest, sweetest love of mine!
My friends say I’m in distress,
Dearest, sweetest love of mine!
Lighted candle, growing less,
Dearest, sweetest love of mine!
Although my heart is sore and sick,
One kiss from thee restores me quick,
Dearest, sweetest love of mine!
Three gay lads in a roadhouse,
Dearest, sweetest love of mine!
Drown their sorrows in carouse,
Dearest, sweetest love of mine!
In their hands a wine-filled glass,
On their knees a loving lass,
Dearest, sweetest love of mine!
LOVE IS, LOVE IS A DARK PIT.
Love is — love is but a dark pit,
Suddenly I fell into it;
And since into this pit I fell,
It seems I live beneath a spell.
I’m set to watch my father’s sheep:
I might as well be fast asleep.
The herd now roams about at will.
And tramples grain on vale and bill.
With careful thought my mother filled
My bag with food, I could have stilled
My hunger, but my bag I lost;
By fasting now I pay the cost.
Dear father and dear mother, pray,
Forgive me if I don’t obey.
The while my heart with love’s aglow,
What I am doing I don’t know.
LOUIS KOSSUTH SENDS US GREETING.
Louis Kossuth sends us greeting:
His brave boys’ ranks are depleting.
If again such message send he,
All must go forth to defend thee,
My dear fatherland!
Heavy rain is darkly falling,
Like a pall on Kossuth falling;
For each drop that poureth on him,
God’s best blessing be upon him:
Cheer our fatherland!
FAIR EXCHANGE.
O, how soiled thy linen garment, dear, I see
Thou hast not a sweetheart who would wash for thee;
Hand it o’er to me, I’ll wash it white as snow,
I will be thy loving sweetheart, thou my beau.
If all treasures of the ocean would be mine,
Gladly I would all to thee give to be thine,
If for them would’st bless some day my lonely life,
And consent to be my dovey, my sweet wife.
HIGH IN THE AIR.
High in the air soars bold the crane, I hear it shriek,
My sweetheart’s angry: she declines to me to speak.
Darling, be not angry long, is what I crave:
I am thine now, e’er thine I am, till laid into my cold grave.
O, what dark clouds overcast the heaven on high,
It is said that we must sever our love’s tie.
Howe’er, we no more can us from each other wean,
Than the moon can over cast off its reflecting silver sheen.
IN THE CHURCHYARD OF ORMÓD.
In the churchyard of Ormód I roamed around,
My red ’kerchief I lost somewhere on the ground.
I care naught my red ’kerchief ne’er to have found;
For the loss of my love, though I grieve profound.
WEEPING-WILLOW TWIGS.
A weeping-willow’s twigs bend o’er
A blossoming rose tree.
Sweet, pretty village maid, believe
My heart aches but for thee.
Yes, for thy love my heart repines;
Alas! thou dost not mind,
A gentler lover for thyself
Thou easily couldn’t find.
Oh, my great, gracious God above!
Dear God! What shall I do
That I her love may gain, for whose
Sweet love now vainly sue?
All my avowals, it seems, are naught,
And all my pledges vain:
To my most solemn promise she
Indifference doth feign.
Ah, me! if to this pretty maid
Would came into the mind
Her heart to give to me for mine,
What happiness she’d find!
The richest bargain she would make,
To boot, she would receive
A thousand hugs and kisses sweet,
And more, e’en, I believe.
HAPPY NIGHT.
Happy night-time, I am with my darling rose
In the garden to each other nestle close;
Quiet’s all: the dogs but bark somewhere, afar,
Within the sky
Like fairies hie,
Bright moon and star.
I would not a good star have become, I know,
I’d be not content within the sky to glow.
All the beauteous heaven is but naught for me,
And from the height
I’d come each night,
Dear rose, to thee!