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302 HUNGARIAN FOLK-SONGS.
To the mountain cold, where the brigand strayed, And waited to clutch me as I came nigh.
At this very hour at the highway cross, He waits for the stranger to rob his gold,
The robbed has only his money's loss,
But the wretched robber his soul has sold.
In the morn I rise bloody clothes to lave,
In the early morn, where the stream runs still. " Why weepest thou, girl ? " " No sorrows I have, But my fire's sharp smoke has made my eyes fill."
THE GIRL AND THE SHEPHERD.
The night sinks softly on the plain,
The heifer's bell is still; A lone pipe calls with magic strain —
The girl leans on the sill.
" Here on the prairie I am alone; My cows and horses rest; " The young girl to the plain has gone With longing in her breast.
The master's herd is moving slow ; The young girl follows on ; " Dear shepherd, spread your soft cloak now The dewy earth upon."
The wheat has not filled out its ear, But birds have picked the grain ; " See, mother, in the early year, How love has brought me pain."