“THE wind was with the roses playing;
To Ranko’s tent it blew their leaves.
Militza, Ranko, there were staying,
And Ranko writes, Militza weaves.
His letter done, he drops his pen;
Her finished web she throws aside.
All anxiously doth Ranko then
Interrogate his promised bride:
“Militza, tell me truly, now,
Say, dost thou love me — love me best?
Or heavy is thy nuptial vow?”
The maiden thus the youth addressed:
“Believe me, thou my heart, my soul,
That thou art dearer far to me,
Far dearer, Ranko, than the whole
Of brothers, many though they be,
And that the vows we pledged together
Are lighter than the lightest feather.”
“THE streamlet rippled through the mead, beneath the maple-tree;
There came a maid down to that stream — a lovely maid was she;
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From the white walls of old Belgrade the maid came smilingly.
Young Mirko saw, and offered her a golden fruit, and said:
“Oh, take this apple, damsel fair, and be mine own sweet maid!”
She took the apple, flung it back, and said, in angry tone:
“Neither thine apple, sir, nor thee! Presumptuous youth, begone!”
The streamlet rippled through the mead, beneath the maple-tree;
There came a maid down to that stream — a lovely maid was she;
From the white walls of old Belgrade the maid came smilingly.
Young Mirko saw, and offered her a golden brooch, and said:
“Oh, take this brooch, damsel fair, and be mine own sweet maid!”
She took the brooch, and flung it back, and said, in peevish tone:
“I’ll neither have thee nor thy brooch! Presumptuous youth, begone!”
The streamlet rippled through the mead, beneath the maple-tree;
There came a maid down to that stream — a lovely maid was she;
From the white walls of old Belgrade the maid came smilingly.
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Young Mirko saw, and offered her a golden ring, and said:
“Oh, take this ring, damsel fair, and be mine own sweet maid!”
She took the ring, and slipped it on, and said, in sprightliest tone:
“I’ll have thee, and thy golden ring, and be thy faithful one!”
THE king from the queen an answer craves:
“How shall we now employ our slaves?”
“The maidens shall work embroidery,
The widows shall spin flax-yarn for me,
And the men shall dig in the fields for thee.”
The king from the queen an answer craves:
“How shall we, lady, feed our slaves?”
“The maidens shall have the honeycomb sweet,
The widows shall feed on the finest wheat,
And the men of maize-meal bread shall eat.”
The king from the queen an answer craves:
“Where for the knight shall rest our slaves?”
“The maidens shall have rooms airy and high,
“The widows on mattressed beds shall lie,
And the men on nettles under the sky.”
“COME with me, thou charming maiden;
Be my love, and come with me.”
“Wherefore play with words so foolish?
That can never, never be.
I had rather in the tavern
Bear the brimming cup, than ever,
Ever promise to be thine.”
“I am the young tavern-keeper,
So thou wilt indeed be mine.”
“Wherefore play with words so foolish?
No such fate will e’er befall.
In the coffee-house I’d rather
Serve, enveloped in my shawl,
Rather than be thine at all.”
“But I am the coffee-boiler,
Thee, my maiden, will I call.”
“Wherefore play with words so foolish?
That can never, never be.
Rather o’er the field I’ll wander,
Changed into a quail, than ever
Ever give myself to thee.”
“But I am a cunning sportsman,
And thou shalt belong to me.”
“Wherefore play with words so foolish?
That can never, never be.
Rather to a fish I’d change me,
Diving deep beneath the sea,
Rather than belong to thee.”
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“But I am the finest network,
Which into the sea I’ll cast.
Mine thou art, and mine thou shalt be —
Yes, thou must be mine at last!
Be it here, or be it there,
Mine thou must be everywhere!”