Away, away it goes, Over the green meadows, Black, black the walls arose!

"O lady, O turn back, To thy walls so sad and black.

"O walls, ye dreary walls!

So sad and black are you, Because your lord they slew!

"Because your lord is slain, Your lady is dragged away Into captivity!

A slave for life to be, Far, far in Tartary!"

Among the ballads of almost all nations we find some that ill.u.s.trate the mournful and dest.i.tute state of _motherless orphans_. There seems to be hardly any feeling, which comes more directly home to the affectionate compa.s.sion of the human heart, than the pitiable and touching condition of helpless little beings left to the tender mercies of a _stepmother_; who, with her traditional severity, may be called a kind of standing bugbear of the popular imagination. The Danes have a beautiful ballad, in which the ghost of a mother is roused by the wailings and sufferings of her deserted offspring, to break with supernatural power the gravestone, and to re-enter, in the stillness of the night, the neglected nursery, in order to cheer, to nurse, to comb and wash the dear seven little ones, whom G.o.d once intrusted to her care. It is one of the most affecting pieces of popular poetry we ever have met with. The Slavic nations have nothing that can be compared with it in _beauty_; but most of them have several ballads on the same subject; and in a general collection, the "Orphan Ballads" would fill a whole chapter.[61] The simple ditty which we give here as another specimen of Polish popular poetry, exceedingly rude as it is in its form, and even defective in rhyme and metre, cannot but please and touch us by its very simplicity.

POOR ORPHAN CHILD.[62]

Poor little orphan is wandering about, Seeking its mother and weeping aloud.

Jesus Christ met it, mildly to it spake: "Where art thou roaming, poor little babe?

"Go not, go not, babe, too far thou wilt roam, And goest e'er so far, not to thy mother come.

"Now turn and go, dear babe, to the green cemetery, From out her deep grave thy mother will speak to thee."

"Wo! at my grave who's knocking so wild?"

"Mother! dear mother! it's I, thy poor child!

"Take me to thee, take me, Ill I fare without thee!"

"Go home, my babe, and thy strange mother tell, She'll wash thy tattered shirt and comb and clean thee well!"

"When my shirt she washes, Sprinkles it with ashes.

"When she puts it on to me, Scolds so grim and bitterly!

"When she combs my head, Runs the blood so red.

"When she braids my hair, Pulls me here and there!"

"Go thee home, my babe, the Lord thy tears will dry!"

And the babe went home, laid her down to cry.

Laid her down to cry, one day only cried; Groaned the second day, and the third day died.

From his heaven our Lord did two angels send, With the poor babe they did to heaven ascend.

From the h.e.l.l our Lord did two devils send; They took the bad stepmother and down to h.e.l.l they went.

Of all the surviving Slavic tribes, we have seen that the nationality of the VENDES of Lusatia is most endangered. If formerly, as a race, they suffered from persecution and oppression, they have now for several centuries shared all the advantages of an enlightened education and wise inst.i.tutions with their German countrymen; and it would therefore be erroneous to consider them still in the light of an oppressed or subjugated nation. Although their language cannot be said to be _favoured_ by the government, they have their schools, their worship, their courts of justice, and, above all, their ballads, without let or hinderance; and if nevertheless the statistics of each year, especially in the plains of Lower Lusatia, show a diminution of the Slavic speaking population, we must attribute it rather to the natural and irresistible effect of time and circ.u.mstances, than to any despotic or arbitrary measures of the government. The Vendish villages are flourishing; the costumes of the peasants are heavy and rich; and to their general welfare the _cheerful_ merry character of their ballads seems to bear testimony. Their melodies resemble the Bohemian, as much as their ballads do those of their neighbours; but German melodies also are frequently heard among them, and many translations of German popular ballads have become perfectly naturalized. That the language of Upper Lusatia approaches very near to the Bohemian, we have stated above. It is, however, much more interspersed with German words; although not to such a degree as the Lower Lusatian dialect.

Of all the Slavic popular ballads, we find in those of the Lusatians least of that chaste feeling, which is in general characteristic of Slavic love songs. The pleasures of illicit intercourse and their consequences, which make also a favourite theme of the common English and German ballads, are often grossly described; and we may conclude that the talent of extemporizing, or in general making pretty verses, has forsaken the female villagers in this German neighbourhood, and pa.s.sed over to the men.

We give here two characteristic ballads of the Upper Lusatian language.

THE ORPHAN'S LAMENT.[63]

Far more unhappy in the world am I, Than on the meadow the bird that doth fly.

Little bird merrily flits to and fro, Sings its sweet carol upon the green bough.

I, alas, wander wherever I will, Every where I am desolate still!

No one befriends me, wherever I go.

But my own heart full of sorrow and woe!

Cease thy grief, oh my heart, full of grief, Soon will a time come that giveth thee relief.

Never misfortune has struck mo so hard, But I ere long again better have fared.

G.o.d of all else in the world has enough; Why not then widows and orphans enough?[64]

GOOD ADVICE FOR LADS.

Let him who would married be, Look about him and take care, That he does not take a wife, Take a wife; He'll repent it till his life.

If thou shouldst make up thy mind, And shouldst take too young a wife, Youthful wife has boiling blood, Boiling blood; No one thinks of her much good.

If thou shouldst make up thy mind, And shouldst take too old a wife, In the house she'll creep about, Creep about; And will frighten people out.

If thou shouldst make up thy mind, And shouldst take a handsome wife, Nought but trouble she will give, Trouble give; Others' visits she'll receive.

If thou shouldst make up thy mind, And shouldst take too short a wife, Lowly thou must stoop to her, Stoop to her, Wouldst thou whisper in her ear.

If thou shouldst make up thy mind, And shouldst take too tall a wife, Ladders thou to her must raise, Ladders raise, If thou wouldst thy wife embrace.

If thou shouldst make up thy mind, And shouldst take a snarling wife, Thou wilt want no dog in the house, Dog in the house; Thy wife will be the dog in the house.

As for poor ones, let them be, Nothing they will bring to thee, Every thing will wanting be, Wanting be; Not a soul will come to thee.

If thou shouldst make up thy mind, And shouldst take a wealthy wife, Then with patience thou must bear, Thou must bear, If the breeches she should wear.

Pretty, modest, smart, and neat, Good and pious she must be; If thou weddest such a wife, Such a wife, Thou'lt not repent it all thy life.

Merry ballads like these are usually sung at wedding feasts, where several of the old Slavic ceremonies are still preserved; among other things the bringing home of the bride in solemn procession. Many old verses, mostly fragments of half forgotten ballads, familiar to their ancestors, are in like manner occasionally recited. But the poetical atmosphere, which still weaves around the Russian or Servian maiden a mystical veil, through which she gazes, as in a dream full of golden illusions and images, into that condition of new existence feared and desired by her at once--that atmosphere is destroyed by the lights of the surrounding civilization, which show the sober reality of things in full glare. The flowers are withered that were wound around the chains; but the chains themselves have become lighter. The ancient wedding songs, full of pagan allusions, have been supplanted by glees mostly composed by their half German pastors; the only educated men who still speak their language. Indeed, not a few of their most popular ballads are written by their curates. How soon these will be superseded by German songs, no one can say; but it requires no great stretch of prophetic power to predict, that the time is near at hand.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: _Volks und Meisterlieder_, Frankf. a.M. 1817.]