And blood flowed, a crimson stream, staining the pail of the milker. As fierce as the mother-bear, struck by the spear of the hunter, Rushed I indoors, and took up a loaf, which I sundered By the stroke of the axe, and black flew the bark-fragments round me. I buckled the skates on my feet, and sped in all haste to the neighbor Again I sped back with a pailful of milk on my shoulder; But on reaching my threshold a cry of sad sorrow assailed me; Spread over her face, and the blackness of night her eyes vailing. This was the crown of our sorrow-bereaved was the beautiful Kangas. And ere long, as if Heaven-abandoned, I left it forever, And, taking my staff in my hand went forth, drawing my children But Time doth lighten most sorrows; and now amid strangers Can sit 'neath the trees in the sunshine, and sing like a cricket. O thou field! thou clean and level field! O thou plain! so far and wide around! For in thy very middle stands a broom, On the broom a young gray eagle sits, Ah, black raven, youth so good and brave, Not a swallow 'tis, that hovering clings, When the sun shines it dries up the dew! Translated by TALVI TAKE THY OLD CLOAKE ABOUT THEE.* This winter weather-itt waxeth cold, Rise up, and save cowe Crumbocke's life- He. O Bell, why dost thou flyte and scorne? Itt is soe bare and overworne A cricke he thereon can not renn; For Ile have a new cloake about mee. She. Cow Crumbocke is a very good cowe, She ha beene alwayes true to the payle, I wold be loth to see her pine, Good husbande, council take of mee, It is not for us to goe so fine Man, take thy old cloake about thee. He. My cloake, it was a very good cloake, *See Othello, Act ii., Scene 3. Put now it is not worth a groate; 'Tis now but a sigh clout as you may see, She. It is four-and-forty yeeres agoe Since the one of us the other did ken, Of children either nine or ten; We have brought them up to women and men, He. O Bell, my wiffe, why dost thou floute, Seeke now all the world throughout, Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen, Once in my life Ile do as they, For Ile have a new cloake about mee. She. King Stephen was a worthy peere, His breeches cost him but a crowne, And thouse but of a low degree- He. Bell, my wife, she loves not strife, And oft to live a quiet life I'm forced to yield though I bee good-man. As we began sae will wee leave And Ile take my old cloake about mee. Anonymous-16th century. THE COUNTRY LASSE. OLD SONG. Although I am a country lass, I think myself as good as those Yet is my skin as soft-a As those that with the chiefest wines What though I keep my father's sheep- Dame Nature crowns us with delight, We pleasures take from morn to night, We country lasses hate their pride, Your city wives lead wanton lives, We country lasses lowly be, For seat nor wall we strive not; We are content with our degreeOur debtors we despise not. I care not for the fan or mask, Which well my face protecteth; As those that every day devise In every season of the year I undergo my labor; No shower nor wind at all I fear, If summer's heat my beauty stain, Sith I can wash it off again With a cup of Christmas liquor. From a black-letter copy in the Assigns of Symcocke. HARVEST SONG. FROM THE GERMAN, Sickles sound; On the ground Fast the ripe ears fall; Every maiden's bonnet Has blue blossoms on it Joy is over all. Sickles ring, Maidens sing To the sickle's sound; Till the moon is beaming, And the stubble gleaming, Harvest songs go round. All are springing, All are singing Every lisping thing; Man and master meat From one dish they eat; Each is now a king. Hans and Michael |