From the tall princely forests the light wind doth blow,
The maiden beloved to the streamlet doth go.
She scoops with her bucket the waves as they fleet,
A nosegay there floats on the wave to her feet.
The maiden she reaches the nosegay to hold,
That roses and violets sweets doth enfold,
But she falls, ah! she falls in the water so cold.
O did I, fair nosegay, o did I but know,
Who, who was the planter that made thee to grow,
A bright golden ring I'd upon him bestow.
O knew I, thon nosegay, so sweet and so fair,
Who chose thee, and plucked thee, and bound thee with care,
I'd give him, I'd give him the pin from my hair.
O did I, fair nosegay, o did I but know,
Who gave thee to float on that waters that flow,
The wreath from my head I'd upon him bestow.
My love went gathering strawberries,
Where green the pine-trees grow,
Her tender foot a thorn hath pierced,
That grew so sharp below,
And now my true-love scarcely can
Upon her white foot go.
O why hast thou, thou thorn so sharp,
Thus wrought the maiden pain?
For that shalt thou, thou thorn so sharp,
Out of the wood be taken.
O come my love, into the shade
All under the greenwood tree!
I'll to the meadow go and fetch
My steed so white to see.
The steed upon the meadow roves,
On the thick grass feedeth he;
My love's beneath the cool, cool shade
For her lover waiteth she.
My love in the pine-wood half aloud
'Gins plaining as afraid;
O what will mother say to me,
To me unhappy maid?
My mother bad me evermore
Of young men to beware,
Yet why of young men heedful be,
When they good people are?"
Then up I rose upon my steed,
Like snow that was so white,
Dismounted, tied him to a branch
By the silver bridle bright.
I clasped and pressed her to my heart,
I kissed her lips so sweet,
And the lovely maid forgets the thorn,
That pains her tender feet.
We kissed and loved each other there,
Till the setting of the sun;
Come, hasten homewards, love! she said;
The day is almost done."
Then quick I sprang upon my steed,
That was as white as snow,
I took my true-love in my arms,
And with her home did go.
There courses a stag through the land so wide,
And over the mountains free;
Over hill and dale he bounds
along,
His antlers are fair to see:
With the antlers fair that his brow
doth bear,
Through the thick wood bursts his way,
And on his feet, that
are so fleet,
Doth in the forest play.
There paces a youth on the
mountains high,
Through the vales to war he goes,
Proud weapons on his
shoulders bears,
With weapons strong bursts through the throng
And close
array of foes.
No more's the youth on the mountains high,
With craft his
savage foe
Doth on him spring; his look is dark,
His eyes with fury
glow.
With heavy mace he smites his breast,
The woods for sorrow
sigh,
He drives forth the soul, the gentle soul,
That through the long and
slender neck
At the fair lips out doth fly.
Ah there he lies! the warm
blood flows.
After the soul that's gone;
The waste earth drinks the warm,
warm blood,
And every maid for the youth low laid
In sad heart makes her
moan.
Low lies the youth in the cold, cold earth,
An oak grows over his
grave,
And far and wide on every side
Its branches it doth wave.
On
goes the stag with antlers fair,
On his quick feet he doth bound,
And
reaches with long and slender neek
The leaves that grow around.
Together
swift-winged sparrow-hawks
From all the forest fly,
And on that oak they
sit and scream,
That all may hear the cry;
By foeman's wrath was lowly
iaid
A youth bemoaned of every maid.
O thou rose, thou lovely
rose,
Why so early bloom'st thou bright?
Why doth frost thy young bloom
smite?
Why frost-stricken fad'st in sight?
Why when faded fall'st thou
light?
Long time I sate at even late
Till cock-crowing alone,
Nor
longer could I ought await,
The wood was burnt and gone.
I slept, I
dreamed, it to me seemed;
Ah me, unhappy maid!
The gold ring from my
finger fell,
That my right hand displayed.
Out slipped a costly stone of
price,
That in the ring should be; -
The precious stone I never
found,
No lover came to me.
Upon the plain an oak-tree
stands,
A cuckoo there doth sing,
And still she mourns and still
complains,
That 'tis not always Spring.
How in the fields could ripen
corn,
If Spring were evermore?
How apples on the orchard-trees,
Were
Summer never to go?
Or how, the ears in garners freeze
Were nought but
Autumn known?
How woeful were it for the maid,
If always left
alone!
Alas! you woods, you gloomy
woods!
You woods of Miletin!
In summer and in winter too
Why are you
ever green?
Right glad were I did I not weep
And my poor heart
torment,
But, o good people, tell to me,
Who would not thus
lament?
Where, where's my father, father dear?
He in the grave is
low;
Where, where's my mother, mother good?
Over her the grass doth
grow:
Brothers and sisters none remain,
My lover they away have
taken.
All in a lordly garden ground
Is weeding bemp a maid,
A lark addresses her and asks,
Why sad, and why afraid?
'O how can I then joyful be
Thou pretty little lark?
My lover they have taken from me
And shut in dungeon dark.
O had I, had I but a pen,
A letter I would write,
And thou my messenger shouldst be,
And with it take thy flight.
But I've no paper, I've no pen
To write a letter now,
So greet my love with song, and say,
That here I pine with woe.