This is why the book is dedicated to the future Hungarian generation. It is for them to find themselves, their roots and help them mold their own lives so they can be at peace with their language and culture.
Examples of plans and projects that can bring back some of this identity are a grandparent program and teacher exchange program of expats starting at the kindergarten and first-grade level. The early grades are the most impressionable and can best benefit from the preserving of the Hungarian culture of the grandparents and expat teachers. The gold was returned to Hungary in August , however the glitter and its soul were safely tucked away with the Crown of St.
Stephen in the vaults of Fort Knox in the US. This time it sounds like the wind blowing fierce. The rest of the song sounds nice. And then there are four more songs which sounds nice but not fabulous. And all of them with an intro before they jump to the actual song. This album is like a lot of books, you read a piece and one moment further you forgot what you were reading. What hast thou done? Was it through thee thy lover died? My heart could find no other way.
Song in a play—"Go not to the Wechernyci, 55 Hritz ". For there await thee daughters of the witch. With envious love she watches what you do. May the devil take the witch! Did you not know What all the roots could tell you? Ere cockcrow That he must die? For this, O Hritz, your just reward I gave— A dark house of four planks—a grave, a grave! How dost thou fare? What should be the yield? With fine, fine tears it is raining now. O cruel wind, ever teasing! O weary, weary are the wings the sky enshrouds!
Wings that have tired too soon. M Y girl tricked me— But she's so nice why should I mind? Could'st thou a nicer find To be the wife of this thy son? Nay, there was never such a one. But ah, she's such a little tease, My love, who's like red cranberries! The beauty of her eyebrows! Fain Am I to tell you once again How like the clouds they seem to be. They make strange weakness steal o'er me; Her glances burn me—O the gold And red of sunset skies unrolled!
Her scarlet lips of such allure! The torment I each day endure! Like plums all downy to the touch, Ah, 'tis her lips I love so much! And yet—her cheeks have havoc wrought— Has she a witch's philtre sought? Don't fool me, little sweetheart, pray. As minnows in the water play So would you slip and slide and turn The while my heart must glow and burn. My heart has reached its utmost bounds, Yet still that fire gnaws, surrounds. Then, if you love me, plague me not. You will not lose.
See what you've got. But, if you love me not, my own, Charm me until I too am stone. You'll lose if you don't love, I swear, But—charm me—maybe I won't care! This song has many variants—the introductory portion of this version was given me by a peasant woman—while a young Ruthenian girl, whose brother was a soldier, said she had often heard him sing the words following:—.
From beyond Dunai? What heardest thou in Ukraine? Nothing have I heard, Nothing have I seen, But horsemen on four sides. The Russians have covered the mountain. On that mountain a Turkish horse stands, On the horse sits a Turk's young son.
A Carpathian Folk Song: Freedom, Love, Gold
In his right hand he holds a sword, From his left blood flows. On the rocky steeps a horse is standing; It is neighing aloud that Love may succour; It is pawing the earth in woe and anguish. Beside the soldier his mother is crying. The men were falling—then why not fly? O mother mine, be not so sorry— I cannot bear to see you cry! My head in four, my heart in six. My white, white fingers they cut in pieces As if they were but wooden sticks; "My body white, fine as seeds of poppy— I was sore wounded in my flight. O mother mine, be not so sorry To see your son in such a plight!
The doctor cannot help me greatly; The carpenter a house will make me. It may not open more. Of windows, like the shining sun, Alas, alas, it has not one Through which your father's eyes might see How fair his orphan child should be! Her maidens there, Faithful attendants, wait her will, Arrange the wreath on her bright hair, Heaping her dowry very high, They'll seat thy daughter as a queen, They'll robe her as a lady fair. Then speak for a while to me!
See how I bend and yearn. Alas, they will part us yet! Many a young girl has drowned herself when she found that her dreams of happiness might not come true. On the steppes two fir-trees old, Their shrunken trunks uphold. And there stands a third between Splendid in its towering green. Spent he lies, and he fears that death Waits beside for his last-drawn breath. A man is standing by the garden gate. As a mother her baby So loved I my darling; So would I have given My loved one, my loved one, my heart!
I sit by the window And think "Would she wed me! Outside of her garden I wait for her coming Though cometh she never— Alas, now I know it, She careth not for me And mocketh at love! Before the hromada 58 the Cossack bows low: "Farewell, friends and foes, and all whom I know. If perchance I have quarrelled with some Or if with my friends has a variance come , I have ended all strife and all quarrelling sore, Because I return, O hromada, no more!
Just a girl in hiding. He'd beat me when I entered there, If you should see me home to-night. Close embracing with their wings. Then he bore Holubka far— Over the swift rivers bore— Strewed before her golden wheat, Sad, she mourned and would not eat. And she sang: "Holub's not here, Now he never will be here! H ARD bloweth the wind, and the trees are bending, I weep, for my heart aches so, with a pain unending. My years pass in my woe, and so shall ever— Alone I mourn, my folk must see me never. For when none see the tears, and no one chideth, Peace in my heart a moment then abideth.
Else, those around me say with laughter scornful, "She weeps—O well, what's that—she's always rather mournful! How lives the tree that in the sand is growing, When sun and dew no bounties are bestowing? How live I then, when in the day so weary My sweetheart comes not to my heart so dreary? Hai, Hai! Three hours before the dawn, unwashen, cold, He sees a dark cloud gather, fold on fold.
And soon the rain in pelting drops descends Upon the wretch who has no home nor friends.
Paganland – ‘Wind of Freedom’ (2011/2013)
He looks upon his bare feet, and, with tears, "Mother! My mother knows—I wonder how— That I'm in love with Petrus now. O the trouble he gives, etc. My mother beat me, you must know, Because I love my Petrus so. Although, my mother, you strike me, Petrus will soon be mine, you'll see! If my Petrus is not in sight Before a wind I bow down quite. But if his eyes in mine should glance With arms akimbo watch me dance! How I have cooked! I love to bake For dear Petrus delicious cake.
Alas, he comes not. What a loss Was all my cooking! There across The street comes tiresome Hritz instead To eat my lovely cake and bread! How sad, O my Mother, how sad To think of the roses blown by the wind And the petals all swept away! How sad, O my Mother, how sad For the war-horse in battle array! But sadder my heart for the soldier young Who must go for those three long years: Must go at the call of his king! H ERE is a hill, And there is a hill.
And between them shines A bright, bright star. My fine grey horse With me I took. With the second stars I went to the well. If thine I were, From the bubbling spring And with new pails I would quench the thirst Of horses twain. Homeward we'll go. Four splendid rooms In my home have I. The fifth one, love, Waits but for thee. It is lighted up For us two alone. Ride we at swiftest gait! Rooms in my house await. The guest-room, O so fine! Shall couch this girl o' mine. Welcoming, she held in greeting Both his hands—"How com'st thou, sweetheart?
His horse stands by the dying, Earth to its very knees. Thou bearest naught of gladness. Like orphan in his sadness Neigh to the folk who greet. By thee lies he then drowned there? Trampled upon the ground there? Bay horse, what hast thou done? Come down; drink with me. Hasten, Mother! Was't thy mother's hand? Is there no river that I may drown in?
dark dream a novella the dark carpathian Manual
A S the cherry glows in the garden, So she, the loved one, grows— So I my love caress. I N the fields grows the rye, rye that is green, is green— "Tell me, my lover, how livest thou, when never my face is seen? No oxen nor kine have I, Black brows—blue eyes—such wealth what lover would satisfy?
Wasyl runs to thwack you! As a substantive "likho" conveys the idea of something malevolent or unfortunate. But the peasantry also describe by Licho an evil spirit, a sort of devil—"When Likho sleeps, awake it not" is a Polish and South Russian proverb. The music for this song is captivating and haunts one; the first two lines are slow, the rest of the measure being in quick, lively time. S O quietly, so gently the Dunai's waters flow. A maiden combs her hair, and sees reflected far below A wealth of silken tresses the breeze blows to and fro.
So quietly, so gently the loose hair drifts adown— "Float there! Wait there—and my sore heart shall come to tell the tale of him— No end there is to Dunai; no eyes for me shall dim. Ah, Dunai! The spring so pretty, she presents brings, But not for me are her gracious things. My days go on, and my years fly past, And I never was happy, from first to last. I do not count my earliest years, Though doubtless they had their fill of tears. O future days! If you wretched be, Come short of the span allotted to me. Mother of mine, when you bathed 65 in flowers Your baby child, of a few short hours, The while the shower of blossoms broke Why did not you let the petals choke?
Mother of mine, did you kneel and pray In cloister dim, when a babe I lay, That all misfortune should depart From the little child held to your heart? Alas, that blessing has been stayed! Ill-luck has come, in spite of all— Then take from God what may befall. She asked me to come and see her sometime. Naidorozcha Devchina 66 is not at home. She was out in the pastures herding cattle.
So I thought I was lost—I would not get her. When the door was opened they told me this: "She finishes all her work of cleaning. She was sitting there at the dinner table. Kneading bread and bringing calves home. Where, Wasylko, art thou? These flowers are used to wreathe the candle held by the bride at her wedding. There is also here the idea of magic properties in the flowers which the maid, who wishes to marry her lover, has planted. This song has a lilting air.
The first four lines are andantino , the refrain allegro. Why dost thou visit the grave-hill? Why weepest thou; where goest thou? Like a grey dove at night thou moanest. Three years she visited the grave— The fourth year dawned. That is not Herb-o'-Dreams That blooms at night. Then they will find me, bury me. Under the bush a young girl lies, She sleeps, she sleeps, nor will arise.
Tired, the youthful one. She rests for ever. The Sun rose over the hill; Rose the folk joyfully From happy slumbers. But all, all the long night through A mother slept not. Weeping, she could see The vacant place at table, Lone in the dusk, And she wept bitterly. Maidens pluck it to place under their pillows in early spring, that they may dream of their lovers.
But by the rest of the world it is regarded with awe and superstitious fears. T HE sun sets; mountains fade Into the darkness; the bird's note is stilled. The fields grow silent, for the peasant now Rejoicing, dreams of rest. And I pour forth my thoughts As though my heart were resting. Fields, forest, mountains, darkening still— And in the shadowy blue appears a star. O Star! My Star!
And the tears fall. Hast thou then also risen in Ukraine? Not for the people and not for the praise These verses now are written. Nay, I write But for myself, my brothers, for heart's ease. Lo, from beyond the Dnieper, as from far away The words flow in and spread the paper o'er; Laughing and crying as the children do They gladden my poor soul, uncomforted, Raw, inconsolable—I joy in them, With them would always stay.
They are my own. As a rich father loves his little ones, So am I glad and merry with my own. Yea, I rejoice; and the good God I praise, That He lets not my children fall asleep In this so far-off land, but says, "Run home, And tell the others in the dear Ukraine How bitter 'twas to live in such a world! T HE wind blows through the oaks in the wood, It dances through the fields. Beside the high-road it uproots Topolia, And fells her to the ground.
Why has she a slim, tall trunk? Why are her broad leaves green? Who nurtured this slender and yielding body To languish on the steppes? Wait, maidens, I will tell ye! He departed and perished. The heart knows whom to love. Girls, O Girls! Not for long the rosy cheeks! Love ye or like as your heart says. The nightingale is trilling In the wood, on the cranberry. As an orphan, she hates the white world. And her heart beats on. Tell me, where is my lover? O my 'Ptashka! Tell me my fortune. Sorrow shall pass. But hearken! Now go!
No, I will not go home! Waiting for him, my mate? Look out o'er the blue sea. Say to him, O my heart, Topolia! That people laugh at me. O Zilie Miracle! She did not return home; She did not wait for him. There slim and tall She beckons to the clouds. For I left there a sweet maiden. Yea, two dark-brown eyes I left there— Blow, thou wind, from midnight onward. There in Ukraine lies a valley, In the valley there's a Khuta; In the hut there dwells a maiden— Little maiden, wild she-pigeon.
There, O Wind, Hush and be silent! Rest above her face in quiet; Bow above her rosy face, thou; Look: is she, my sweetheart, sleeping? Or is she awake, my pigeon? If she sleeps not, set her dreaming Of the one she loved, her dearest, Whom she swore she would forget not. But, O Wind, if she forget me, If she have another wooer.
Die away in Ukraina— Come not back to me in exile! And the wind blows on through Ukraine. My heart weeps: 'tis full of sorrows. And the wind fled into Ukraine, And it never turned backward. I T is about a month since my loved one bade me good-bye, Since he went away, and wept, and gave me the ring; "If I do not return from war, but there lay my head, This ring shall remind you aye of your true love. Doubtless the raven croaks, perching upon his head! I will to the fortune-teller—"Young am I, but sad; Read me the sign of the ring.
I fear that some evil comes. My heart burns like a fire. In a village graveyard old there stands a cross of oak. Under it dreams a girl; she has dreamt this many a year. And her loved one from the war has never, never returned. In a far-off land, somewhere, he fell into dreamless sleep. He was born in , his mother being an unlearned peasant, full of superstition.
These songs, heard as a child, he wove into music when serving in the army, and to the unknown poet, his sister, is really due part of his fame, she having inspired him by her fancy. After living for some time in Czernowitz and Moldavia the boy of eighteen joined the Austrian army and seven years later was made an officer, taking part in the Italian wars of , when the Austrians opposed the French. On his return to Bukovina Fedkovich found that his writings had a wide popularity, and he soon made the acquaintance of some well-known patriots who encouraged him to write in Ruthenian, for up till then he had been composing in German.
In his first sixteen poems were printed in Ruthenian, and a year later a larger edition of his works was published. In he moved to Lemberg, but city life palled on him and he ended his days in the free country life of Bukovina, dying in His work is marked by great lyrical beauty.
T HE midnight fire flickers, The embers slowly dying; The father sits at the table, Heavily, sadly thinking. The mother, too, sits quiet, Sending swift prayers to Heaven. Her heart is filled with grief, But she knows not words to tell it. The sisters finish their sewing By the light of the Kahanetz. The brother has sought a corner To pipe sad tunes on a flute. He plays on the flute of Ivan, Ivan who the Emperor serves. Suddenly, with a heart-cry, He stops-his sad, sweet playing: "Ivan, Ivan!
It sounds not, Thy famous tunes are silent! Where, O where art thou living, And how doth my brother fare? Quietly leaving the room He went to sleep in the stable, That he might talk with the bay Concerning Ivan, his brother. It drifted into silence. The soldier's head has fallen, The stars have faded away. On Sunday in the village Gather Ivan's companions. Does he dream of the bay, Or of Kateryna?
T HE bell rings, rings, rings!