| Share page | Visit Us On FB |
|
HUNGARIAN FOLK-SONGS. 293
Her love bends o'er it, and weeps aloud ; His heart's black tears its radiance blight.
They planted rosemary on her grave ;
Weeping he followed his sweetheart's hearse. His tears were dew where grave grasses wave :
" Return my love or have my curse !"
Her linen chemise none will wash now,
Except the rain of his weeping eyes ; The tangled curls on her pallid brow
No one will caress with soothing sighs.
Again at Tarja the bells ring slow —
For the youth himself they sadly toll. He wept so much for his dove laid low,
To-day they weep his own parting soul.
Young maids, young maids of Tarja's plum grove, By constant presence pay love's debts.
For a young man's heart breaks for his dove, While a young girl's heart weeps and forgets.
THE BETROTHED.
" In the great court of thy small dwelling,
My dear rose, what doest thou ? " " I cook my pullets ; my heart I 'm telling
My love for his supper will come but now."
" In the great court of thy small dwelling,
My dear rose, what doest thou ? " " I trim my dress ; my heart I 'm telling
My love will be coming with shining brow." |
||