There is a Hungarian proverb which says, "The Magyar amuses himself by weeping." There is an underlying element of melancholy in this proud and high-spirited race, and its susceptibility to sadness is manifest in its folk-poetry as in its remarkable and powerful national music, which has for the fine ear a note of lamentation beneath its fiery tone. This is not singular, for the folk-songs of almost every nation have this pervading element to a greater or less degree, characterized by shades of temperament and national and historical influences, and showing that the minds of primitive peoples were most deeply affected by the woes of life rather than its joys, and the disappointments rather than the successes of passion, which express themselves in poetry. The aspects of nature, particularly the loneliness of vast plains such as exist in Hungary, and the enforced pensiveness of the shepherd life, exercise a powerful influence in giving a melancholy tinge to popular poetry, and in its melody and in its thought it breathes the note of the rain-laden breeze that sighs across the vast expanse, and the lights of whose magic sunshine are rather of sadness than exhilaration. Like all primitive poetry, born in times of strife and a disorganized and turbulent condition of society, the Magyar ballads deal with violent passions and bloodshed, and the brigands, who were rather military outlaws than common robbers, are the popular heroes, and appeal to the peasant imagination as the embodiments of the revolt of the people against the tyranny of the rich and powerful. But, in spite of their exploits, the gallows always waits for them, and the ballads end with the dismal spectacle of the body swinging in the wind on the deadly tree, while in the midst of their carousings the note of sadness and the foreboding of certain fate constantly intrudes. The Magyar brigand ballads have a much deeper element of poetry and passion than is to be found in the coarse humor and vulgar trickery of the English Robin Hood ballads, and express a finer and more delicate fibre of national feeling. The prevalent characteristics of Magyar folk-poetry are, however, the same as those of the higher standard of popular ballads, and were produced by similar influences, and in similar condition of mind. There is the same vigor of expression and strength of natural imagery, the same abruptness and disconnection in the construction in which dramatic dialogue is interjected into description with a perfect faith in the hearer's comprehension, the same naÏvetÉ and freshness of language, and the same simplicity and passion of thought. Those striking coincidences in subject and form of expression which are noted, to the wonder and bewilderment of the students of folk-poetry and folk-tales, in the most widely diverse nations, and which would almost lead to the belief in a common origin and derivation, or to some means of intercommunication yet unknown, are to be found in the Magyar ballads, connecting them with the common stock. In the specimens which follow, the ballad of Poisoned Janos is almost exactly similar in construction and refrain to the Scotch ballad of Lord Randal:—

"O, where hae ye been, Lord Randal, my son,

O, where hae ye been, my handsome young man?"

"I hae been to the wild-wood; mother, make my bed soon,

For I'm wearie wi hunting, and fain wald lie down!"—

with the substitution of the "crab with four feet" for the "eels boiled in broo"—the conventional poisoned dish. The same ballad in substance and form of expression, with the same devising of property to friends and the same bestowal of a curse upon the murderess, is to be found in Danish, German, Dutch, Swedish, Spanish, Italian, and other European folk-poetry, and may yet be discovered in Africa and the South Seas. The circumstance of the infant speaking from the cradle, giving warning of the faithlessness of his mother in Barcsai is common in the folk-ballads of many nations, and the incident of a bird's singing ill-news, the request of a dead man for a peculiar kind of coffin and a favorite burial place, and the growing together of flowers from the graves of a loving couple, are almost universal features in popular poetry; and the rejection of the body of a murdered man by a stream is also familiar. The griefs and sorrows over mortality, the laments of disappointed love, the woes of lonely old age, the remorse for sin, and the fierce passions of jealousy and revenge are common to human nature, and are interpreted in the same language the world over, whether in civilization or barbarism.

In regard to the versions which follow, it is needless to state the difficulty of transferring the original vividness of expression, or preserving the effect of the repetitions and other peculiarities of primitive poetry in the conventional fetters of modern verse and rhyme. The first ballad, Barcsai, is given in a literal translation in order that these forms and turns of expression may be appreciated. The others have been rendered as literally and with as much of the original flavor as possible, but with a consciousness that much of the latter has inevitably evaporated. As says M. Jean de Nathy, to whose literal translations into French, Ballades et Chansons Populaires de la Hongrie, I am indebted for my knowledge of Magyar folkpoetry: "For the greater part without rhymes, they abound in repetition of words and parts of phrases, in alliterations and parallelism, called by the poet Arany 'rhymes of thought' which are difficult to render in modern forms of verse."

BARCSAI.

"Go, my master, go to Kolozvar,

To Kolozvar, to the mansion of my father,

And bring me, bring me the great piece of linen,

The great piece of linen, of linen fine that I have had as a

present."

"Do not go, my father, do not go, do not quit your mansion,

For my lady mother, in truth, loves Barcsai."

"Hearest thou, wife, hearest thou what says the infant?"

"Do not believe him, my dear master, the infant is drunken."

He is gone upon the words of his wife,

Upon the words of his wife toward Kolozvar.

Before he had traveled half of the road,

There came to his spirit the words of the little infant,

And immediately he returns toward the mansion,

Toward the mansion. Before his door he halts.

"Open the door, open the door, my lady wife."

"In a moment I will open it, in a moment, my dear, beloved

master,

But first let me put on my every-day garment,

But first let me put on my apron."

"Open the door, open the door, my lady wife."

"In a moment I will open it, my dear beloved master,

But first let me put on my shoes new-soled,

But first let me knot around my head my every-day kerchief."

"Open the door, open the door, my lady wife."

She did not know what to say; to open the door she was

forced.

"Give me, give me, the key to the great chest."

"I cannot give you it, I cannot give you the key of the great

chest,

In the neighborhood I have been; I jumped over the hedge,

And it's there I lost the key of the great chest—

We will find it at the fair blush of morning,

At the fair blush of morning, at the brightening of the earth."

Then he struck so strongly the great painted chest

That he broke it in two halves.

Barcsai fell out and rolled upon the earth.

He took his sword and cut off his head.

"Hearken, my wife, hearken, my wife, hearken,

Of three deaths, which do you choose?

Do you choose that I cut off your head?

Or with your silky locks that I sweep the house?

Or do you choose to watch until the morning,

And serve as a torch to seven wassailers?"

"Of the three deaths I choose

To serve as a torch to seven wassailers."

"My servant, my servant, my very little servant,

Bring me, bring the great pot of pitch.

Bring me, bring me, the great piece of linen,

The great piece of linen, of linen fine, received as a present.

Begin at her head, and to the sole of her feet wrap her,

The fine linen knot around her head.

Begin at her head, and to the sole of her feet cover her with

pitch.

Begin at the sole of her feet and set the whole on fire.

"At her head I will place the Wallach fifer,

At her feet I will place the gypsy fiddler.

Whistle, Wallach, whistle from thy Wallach pipe,

Play, gypsy, play from thy gypsy fiddle,

Whistle with all thy might, play with all thy soul,

That the heart of my wife may be rejoiced."