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.
One morsel I gave to my wife, saying: "Take it; 'tis all that is left us;
Eat, and give suck to the infant." She took the dry morsel;
She turned it about in her hand, looked at it, then pressing
The babe to her bosom, she swooning, fell back on her pillow.

I buckled the skates on my feet, and sped in all haste to the neighbor
Who dwelt nearest to me, and prayed for some help in my sorrow
He willingly gave it, dividing his all as a brother.

Again I sped back with a pailful of milk on my shoulder;

But on reaching my threshold a cry of sad sorrow assailed me;
And entering, I saw by the bedside my two eldest children,
Frantic with terror, and trying to waken their mother;
Put silent and motionless lay she, a ghastly death pallor

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
On a light sledge behind me, and wandered gray-headed a beggar.
From parish to parish we wandered, and God and good Christians sus-
tained us.

But Time doth lighten most sorrows; and now amid strangers
My children are blooming afresh; for myself it contents me
If only my bread I can win, and playing my jew's-harp

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!
Level field, dressed up with every thing,
Every thing; with sky-blue flowerets small,
Fresh green grass, and bushes thick with leaves;
But defaced by one thing, but by one!

For in thy very middle stands a broom,

On the broom a young gray eagle sits,
And he butchers wild a raven black,
Sucks the raven's heart-blood, glowing hot,
Drenches with it too the moistened earth.

Ah, black raven, youth so good and brave,
Thy destroyer is the eagle gray!

Not a swallow 'tis, that hovering clings,
Hovering clings to her warm little nest;
To the murdered son the mother clings,
And her tears fall like the rushing stream,
And his sister's like the flowing rill;
Like the dew the tears fall of his love-

When the sun shines it dries up the dew!

Translated by TALVI

TAKE THY OLD CLOAKE ABOUT THEE.*

This winter weather-itt waxeth cold,
And frost doth freese on every hill,
And Boreas blows his blastes so cold
That all our cattell are like to spill;
Bell, my wife, who loves no strife,
Shee sayd unto me quietlye,

Rise up, and save cowe Crumbocke's life-
Man, put thy old cloake about thee.

He. O Bell, why dost thou flyte and scorne?
Thou kenst my cloake is very thin,

Itt is soe bare and overworne

A cricke he thereon can not renn;
Then Ile no longer borrowe nor lend,
For once Ile new apparelled bee;
To-morrow Ile to towne, and spend,

For Ile have a new cloake about mee.

She. Cow Crumbocke is a very good cowe,

She ha beene alwayes true to the payle,
Shee has helpt us to butter and cheese, I trow,
And other things she will not fayle,

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,
Itt hath been alwayes true to the weare,

*See Othello, Act ii., Scene 3.

Put now it is not worth a groate;
I have had itt four-and-forty yeare.
Sometime it was of cloth in graine,

'Tis now but a sigh clout as you may see,
It will neither hold nor winde nor raine-
And Ile have a new cloake about mee.

She. It is four-and-forty yeeres agoe

Since the one of us the other did ken,
And we have had betwixt us towe

Of children either nine or ten;

We have brought them up to women and men,
In the fere of God I trowe they bee,
And why wilt thou thyself misken—
Man, take thy old cloake about thee.

He. O Bell, my wiffe, why dost thou floute,
Now is now, and then was then;

Seeke now all the world throughout,

Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen,
They are cladd in blacke, greene, yellowe, or gray,
Soe far above their owne degree-

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,
He held them sixpence all too deere,
Therefore he call'd the tailor loon.
He was a wight of high renowne,

And thouse but of a low degree-
Its pride that putts this countrye downe
Man, take thy old cloake about thee.

He. Bell, my wife, she loves not strife,
Yet she will lead me if she can;

And oft to live a quiet life

I'm forced to yield though I bee good-man.
Itt's not for a man with a woman to threepe,
Unless he first give o'er the plea ;

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,
A lofty mind I bear-a,

I think myself as good as those
That gay apparel wear-a.
My coat is made of homely gray,

Yet is my skin as soft-a

As those that with the chiefest wines
Do bathe their bodies oft-a.
Down, down, derry, derry down;
Heigh, downa, downa, downa;
A derry, derry, derry, derry down,
Heigh down a derry!

What though I keep my father's sheep-
A thing that must be done-a,
A garland of the fairest flowers
Shall shroud me from the sun-a;
And when I see them feeding be,
Where grass and flowers spring,
Close by a crystal fountain side
I sit me down and sing-a.

Dame Nature crowns us with delight,
Surpassing court or city;

We pleasures take from morn to night,
In sports and pastimes pretty.
Your city dames in coaches ride
Abroad for recreation;

We country lasses hate their pride,
And keep the country fashion.

Your city wives lead wanton lives,
And if they come i' the country,
They are so proud, that each one strives
For to out-brave our gentry.

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,
When Titan's heat reflecteth;
A homely hat is all I ask,

Which well my face protecteth;
Yet I am in my country guise
Esteemed lasse as pretty

As those that every day devise
New shapes in court or city.

In every season of the year

I undergo my labor;

No shower nor wind at all I fear,
My limbs I do not favor.

If summer's heat my beauty stain,
It makes me ne'er the sicker,

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
Whet the sickle,