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HUNGARIAN FOLK-SONGS. 307
Its flowers are fair ; its fruit is sweet, A little maiden sits at its feet.
She tresses garlands of red and white; On her breast they turn to silver bright.
She lifts her eyes to the heavens vast, And sees a wide road winding past.
Its borders two like silver gleam, The middle is a golden stream.
A lamb walks there with curly bell, On each curl point tinkles a bell.
The wild duck broods in the reedy grass, In the meadow rich ripens the corn,
But the place where lives a faithful lass I never have found since I was born.
In the lonesome night the stars are falling,
The young man drags his feet toward the house.
Heavy in his heart are voices calling,
And hatred of the world his miseries arouse.
In the lonesome night the stars are falling, In the white mansion the candle glimmers red.
Flowers strew the couch. Oh, the sight appalling !
The brown girl in her shroud lies stretched upon her bed.