Peasant Love Songs - George Cosbuc

I.

  He

In the garden of my sweetheart

Sing two birds beautifully,

And the sun proudly shines,

And my darling sits and dreams.

Near the garden of my sweetheart

Runs a river clear and crystal

Where my darling sits and weeps.

  She

When you are here, little man,

I dress all the time like a bride,

Wearing flowers and pearls

So you will like them.

Since you have gone away, little man,

The red belt and the tulip have vanished—

It is so sad.

Green leaf of the citron:

My little man has gone to the army;

He is gone and does not write to me,

Neither on the leaves, nor on the river,

Nor on the wings of the wind.

II.

Bad, O mother, is fever,

But far, far worse is love.

For fever you can eat and drink,

But for love there is naught but pain.

From fever my mother can cure me,

But love is far from her care;

From fever the priest can pray me,

But not from the evil of love.

All of us learn this evil,

As did I a year from last spring.

The longing is slowly killing me—

Yes, love is an evil thing.

III.

If you did not love me, little man,

God shall curse you for it.

You should marry nine times,

And you should have nine boys.

You should have a girl too—

She shall bring you water in prison,

Because when you left me

You broke my heart and my love.

IV.

Little man, tell me, is it true?

Be honest and tell me, please—

Do you love me or not?

If you like me only a little,

Take any road that you wish,

But never the one that leads to my house.

V.

Goodbye, darling, good luck!

Remain beautiful as a violet

In a glass on the table.

VI.

Beautiful girl with blonde hair,

When I see you I begin to lean

Like the leaves in the acacia

When the wind is blowing through them.

Like the leaves of the oak tree I lean

When the breeze is blowing through them.

VII.

I had a beautiful neighbor,

And a path to her garden;

But she went and got married

And said not a word to me.

I would have taken her myself!

If she had married three villages away,

It wouldn’t have hurt me so.

But she married a man down our street,

The third door from my mother’s home!

When I am in, I hear her voice;

When I go out, I see her face:

It makes my heart burn like fire.

---

George Cosbuc (1866 - 1918) Romania

Translated by Maurice Aisen

Source: Harriet Monroe, ed. Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. Vol IV No. 4. July, 1914.