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304 HUNGARIAN FOLK-SONGS.
In the harvest field there are three flowers, These words said the flower of the vine : I am the brightest in all the bowers, I 'm gathered for the church, and they say the red blood of Christ is mine.
In the harvest field there are three flowers, These words said the wee violet blue : I am the brightest beneath the showers, For the young maidens cull me to deck the hats of those they love so true.
THE LONESOME ONE.
Before thy door the bright, green corn
Bends o'er the pebbly path, Its blooming flowers are not yet born —
Two doves coo in the math.
Comes tripping by a village lass :
Her skirts are wet with dew, Has she been raking the moistened grass ?
Oh, I am far from you.
My sweetheart, I 'm as far from you
As I have been for years, Of her I ask each stranger new,
No tidings reach my ears.
O'er the lone prairie the wind whistles cold, The young shepherd sadly follows his way.