We are three sisters, young and gay,

Our cheeks and eyes the likeness show;

In broidering we spend the day,

Or teach each other how to sew.

The youngest, in her youth elate,

The fancy took, one summer night,

To pass the orange garden gate,

With two flambeaux to give her light.

She wore a pretty page's suit,

That showed her shape so trim and neat;

In light, fair hands she held a lute,

And colored shoes adorned her feet.

She strutted up and down the road,

With mimic of a martial stride.

"Fair maidens here have their abode;

Which of the three shall be my bride?"

Upon the balcony we leant,

And laughed to see her gallant guise;

At length the torches' flame was spent;

The moon had risen in the skies.

As to the gate her way she took

When all her sportive tricks were done,

She saw with sudden startled look

A hermit on a bench of stone.

"Father, what do you here?" she cries.

He answered not, but stood upright;

So tall his stature seemed to rise,

The stoutest heart would feel affright.

"If you 're a demon, as you seem,

This sacred cross bids you avaunt.

If your lost soul you would redeem,

The holy priest shall masses chant."

"I'm not an imp from hell's domain;

The holy cross I do not fear;

I'm not a soul that waits in pain,

For a redeeming mass to hear.

"But Dom Aleixio's ghost am I

To save you from a deadly strife;

There seven men in ambush lie,

With naked swords to take your life."

"Indeed! then by the living God,

And by the Virgin Mary's grace,

Were they twice seven, on the sod

I would not yield a foot of space.

"Come on, come on, you sneaking band,

And show your valiance in the light;

With good sword in each valiant hand,

See, mine is ready for the fight.

"If weaponless is one of you,

To him my own sword I will lend;

With this good dagger, keen and true,

I can right well my life defend."

As thus she spoke these words of pride,

The hermit off his robe did throw;

She snatched the dagger from his side,

And pierced his heart with deadly blow.

"Oh, who has slain my lover true,

That lies before me on the ground?"

"'T was you, my lady, only you

Had fateful power to give the wound."

Rise up, Maria, from your knees,

In vain in prayer your hands are crost,

The sobbing of the orange trees

Bewails your soul, forever lost.

The ballad of Dom Pedro Menino was found by Signor Braga in the Azores islands, and is by him attributed to an actual historical event, the marriage of Dom Pedro Nino, a simple knight, to the infanta Beatrixe of Portugal; but, notwithstanding the similarity of names, it must be considered as at least doubtful.