Oh, to see my native village,

Underneath the mountains blue;
With its green and flowery meadows,
And its lake as clear as dew;

And its many-coloured houses;

Oh, to see them all once more!
And to greet the friendly neighbours,
Each man standing at his door!

No one loves us here, or shakes us
Warm and kindly by the hand;
Little children smile not on us,
As at home in Switzerland!

Oh, I pine to see the homestead,
Where my happy youth flew by:
Up, my limbs, and bear me thither!

Bear me thither, ere I die!"

The allusion in the seventh stanza to the "bunte hüsi” or “ manycoloured houses," will be readily understood by the traveller who remembers the fashion so common in Switzerland, Belgium, and some parts of Germany, of washing the cement on the outer walls of different colours; one house being green, the next perhaps red, another white, and another yellow.

The stanza in italics is exceedingly beautiful and simple in the original. Those who have known what it is to be utterly alone in a strange land,-who have come, perhaps, from distant parts to mighty London, without knowing one face out of the million and a half that throng its streets, will feel its force, and acknowledge its truth to nature. It is a poem in itself.

Another very popular song is called the Heimkehr, or the return home. It is without rhyme in the original, a peculiarity which I have imitated in the following translation.

The following is a love-song of a different description. original is in the Bernese dialect, and is very popular in all the rural districts where German is understood. A lover, knocking at his mistress's door, says,

"Good evening to thee, Brennelie,

And say how hast thou been?
I've much to tell thee, Brennelie,
So rise and let me in."

There are, it would appear, people in the house whom Brennelie wishes to keep in the dark relative to her love-meetings, and she calls out in a loud voice, so that every one may hear,

"Go, get you from my door, sir ;
I'll bolt it in your face;

Or set our poodle at you,

To drive you from the place!"

Lest the lover should misunderstand, and believe her wrath to be genuine, she adds in a low voice, that he alone can hear,

"Come back again at midnight,
Thou 'lt find the bolt give way!
Come back again at midnight,
I will not say thee nay!"

Many favourite songs are written upon the subject of the " Abesetze," or daily gathering of friends and neighbours around the fireside at evening. There are also several extant relative to those rural festivals once common to most European nations, instituted in honour of the spring-time, or the harvest. The stern, hard-featured face of modern civilization has been gradually scaring away from among us all these relics of ancient manners. The may-songs which used to be so merry in England, are now but poor affairs indeed. Instead of the jolly peasant lads and lasses, a few blackguard chimney-sweeps alone celebrate the advent of the month of flowers, looking like the grim ghosts of the hearty festivities of yore. The same effect is produced by the same causes in Switzerland; but as civilization, with her steam-engines, factories, and gas-works, does not penetrate so easily on to the mountains as into the plain, the Swiss peasantry, pursuing their old occupations, still cherish many ancient customs which have become obsolete elsewhere. On the 1st of May the youths and children of the villages deck themselves out in their best attire, and bearing in their hands branches of trees hung with many-coloured ribands, they go about from house to house, offering eggs to the inhabitants, and singing in full chorus,

"Der Meyen isch kommen u dass isch ja wahr !”

This song in praise of May is very old, but has little except its antiquity to recommend it. At its conclusion, the singers receive presents from the people; after which they sing a supplementary verse, by way of thanks. It is literally as follows:

"God thank you, friendly people all!

God help you in his heavenly kingdom!
In heaven there is a golden table,
Where sit the angels healthy and fresh.
In heaven there is a golden throne.

God give you all an eternal reward!"

Many German poets have written songs in praise of Switzerland in choice Teutonic; but these, although in some instances extremely beautiful, are drawing-room poetry," and, as such, do not come within the limits of our subject. The songs of the people, which we have been considering, are the effusions of nameless and forgotten poets,-in all probability of drovers and milkmaids; the more valuable on that account, because so much the more likely to give a true description of the manners and feelings of a class of society upon whom depends, in a great measure, the welfare of a country.

Like to daisies, snow-drops, blue-bells, forget-me-nots, crocuses, and hedge-roses, which the child may pluck as it runs past, and the labourer plant in his bosom, are the fragments of old songs that delight the people. They grow, like them, without culture, in cornfields and sheep-walks, and are as precious in the sight of the true lover of nature as the rare and costly exotics of the rich man's conservatory. On another occasion [Boz volente] we propose to present the reader with a wreath of such wild flowers gathered on German soil.

494

THE GOLDEN LEGEND.-No. I.

A LAY OF ST. NICHOLAS.

"Statim sacerdoti apparuit diabolus in specie puellæ pulchritudinis miræ, et ecce Divus, fide catholicâ et cruce et aquâ benedictâ armatus, venit, et aspersit aquam in nomine sanctæ et individuæ Trinitatis, quam, quasi ardentem, diabolus, nequaquam sustinere valens, mugitibus fugit." ROGER HOVEDEN.

"LORD ABBOT! Lord Abbot! I'd fain confess;

I am a-weary, and worn with woe;
Many a grief doth my heart oppress,
And haunt me whithersoever I go!"

On bended knee spake the beautiful Maid;
"Now lithe and listen, Lord Abbot, to me!"—
"Now naye, Fair Daughter," the Lord Abbot said,
"Now naye, in sooth it may hardly be;

"There is Mess Michael, and holy Mess John,
Sage Penitauncers I ween be they!

And hard by doth dwell, in St. Catherine's cell,
Ambrose, the anchorite old and grey!"

"Oh, I will have none of Ambrose or John,
Though sage Penitauncers I trow they be;
Shrive me may none save the Abbot alone.
Now listen, Lord Abbot, I speak to thee;
"Nor think foul scorn, though mitre adorn
Thy brow, to listen to shrift of mine.
I am a Maiden royally born,

And I come of old Plantaganet's line.
"Though hither I stray in lowly array,
I am a Damsel of high degree;

And the Compte of Eu, and the Lord of Ponthieu,
They serve my father on bended knee!

"Counts a many, and Dukes a few,

A suitoring came to my father's Hall;

But the Duke of Lorraine, with his large domain,
He pleas'd my father beyond them all.

"Dukes a many, and Counts a few,

I would have wedded right cheerfulie;

But the Duke of Lorraine was uncommonly plain,
And I vow'd that he ne'er should my bridegroom be!

"So hither I fly, in lowly guise,

From their gilded domes and their princely halls ;
Fain would I dwell in some holy cell,

Or within some Convent's peaceful walls!"

-Then out and spake that proud Lord Abbot,
"Now rest thee, Fair Daughter, withouten fear;
Nor Count nor Duke but shall meet the rebuke
Of Holy Church an he seek thee here:

"Holy Church denieth all search

'Midst her sanctified ewes and her saintly rams;
And the wolves doth mock who would scathe her flock,
Or, especially, worry her little pet lambs.

"Then lay, Fair Daughter, thy fears aside,

For here this day shalt thou dine with me !""Now naye, now naye," the fair maiden cried; "In sooth, Lord Abbot, that scarce may be !

"Friends would whisper, and foes would frown,
Sith thou art a Churchman of high degree,
And ill mote it match with thy fair renown
That a wandering damsel dine with thee!

"There is Simon the Deacon hath pulse in store,
With beans and lettuces fair to see;

His lenten fare now let me share,

I pray thee, Lord Abbot, in charitie!"

"

"Though Simon the Deacon have pulse in store,
To our patron Saint foul shame it were
Should way-worn guest with toil opprest
Meet in his abbey such churlish fare.

"There is Peter the Prior, and Francis the Friar,
And Roger the Monk shall our convives be;
Small scandal I ween shall then be seen;
They are a goodly companie!"

The Abbot hath donn'd his mitre and ring,

His rich dalmatic, and maniple fine;
And the choristers sing as the lay-brothers bring
To the board a magnificent turkey and chine.

The turkey and chine they were done to a nicety;
Liver, and gizzard, and all were there :
Ne'er mote Lord Abbot pronounce Benedicite
Over more luscious or delicate fare.

But no pious stave he, no Pater or Ave,

Pronounced, as he gazed on that maiden's face: She asked him for stuffing, she asked him for gravy, And gizzard; but never once asked him for Grace!

Then gaily the Lord Abbot smiled and prest,

And the blood-red wine in the wine-cup fill'd; And he help'd his guest to a bit of the breast, And he sent the drumsticks down to be grill'd.

There was no lack of old Sherris sack,

Of Hippocras fine, or of Malmsey bright;
And aye, as he drained off his cup with a smack,
He grew less pious and more polite.

She pledged him once, and she pledged him twice,
And she drank as a Lady ought not to drink;
And he pressed her hand 'neath the table thrice,
And he winked as an Abbot ought not to wink.

And Peter the Prior, and Francis the Friar,
Sat each with a napkin under his chin;
But Roger the Monk got excessively drunk,
So they put him to bed, and they lock'd him in!

The lay-brothers gaz'd on each other, amaz'd;
And Simon the Deacon, with grief and surprise,
As he peep'd through the key-hole could scarce fancy real
The scene he beheld, or believe his own eyes.

In his ear was ringing the Lord Abbot singing,-
He could not distinguish the words very plain,

But 'twas all about " Cole," and "jolly old Soul,"

And "Fiddlers," and "Punch," and things quite as profane.