To this dear son of mine.

'Holla! my lad, brisk butler,
Now bring me the mead so fast;
My head aches sore; I fear
I've rode and drunk my last!'

Who knocks, who storms so fiercely?
Sir Sava looks up to know;
The Leshes stand before him,
And quick accost him so:

'We bow to thee, Sir Sava,
How far'st thou, tell us now!
To thy guests from the Ukraina,
What welcome biddest thou?'

'What could I bid you, brethren,
To-day in welcome's stead?
Well know I, ye are come
To take my poor sick head!'

'And tell us first, Sir Sava,
Where are thy daughters fair?'
'They are stolen by the Leshes,
And wash their linen there.'

'Now to the fight be ready!
Sir Sava meet thy lot!
Thy head is lost! one moment,
Death meets thee on the spot.'

The sabre whizzes through the air
Like wild bees in the wood,
The young wife of Sir Sava
By him a widow stood!

THE LOVE-SICK GIRL.[40]

Winds are blowing, howling,
Trees are bending low;
O my heart is aching,
Tears in streams do flow.

Years I count with sorrow,
And no end appears;
But my heart is lighten'd,
When I'm shedding tears.

Tears the heart can lighten,
Happy make it not;
E'en one blissful moment
Ne'er can be forgot.

Some there are who envy
E'en my destiny;
Say, 'O happy flow'ret
Blooming on the lea.'

On the lea so sandy,
Sunny, wanting dew!
O without my lover
Life is dark to view.

Nought can please without him,
Seems the world a jail;
Happiness exists not,
Peace of mind doth fail.

Where, dark-browed belov'd one,
Where, O may'st thou be?
Come and see, astonished,
How I weep for thee!

Whom shall I now lean on,
Whose caress receive?
Now that he who loves me
Far away doth live?

I would fly to thee, love,
But no wings have I;
Withered, parch'd, without thee,
Every hour I die.

The following little elegy, heard and written down in Galicia, we have
always considered as one of the gems of poetry. It is a sigh of deep,
mourning, everlasting love.

THE DEAD LOVE.

White art thou, my maiden,
Can'st not whiter be!
Warm my love is, maiden,
Cannot warmer be!

But when dead, my maiden,
White was she still more;
And, poor lad, I love her,
Warmer than before.[41]

Of still greater importance in respect to our subject are t