All the night with golden sparks
  Thou wouldst for me cry! 
  Since my love intends to wed,
  Only ’cause another maid
  Richer is than I.

LIBERAL PAY.

  Flowing waters meet each other,
  And the winds, they blow and blow;
  Sweetheart with her bright blue eyes
  Stands and looks from her window.

  Do not stand so at the window,
  Rather come before the door;
  If thou giv’st me two sweet kisses,
  I will give thee ten and more.

HAPPY DEATH.

  In a green grove
  Sat a loving pair;
  Fell a bough from above,
  Struck them dead there. 
  Happy for them,
  That both died together;
  So neither was left,
  To mourn for the other.

THE LYING BIRD.

  What chatters there the little bird,
    On the oak tree above? 
  It sings, that every maid in love
    Looks pale and wan from love.

  My little bird, thou speak’st not true,
    A lie hast thou now said;
  For see, I am a maid in love,
    And am not pale, but red.

  Take care, my bird; because thou liest,
    I now must punish thee;
  I take this gun, I load this gun,
    And shoot thee from the tree.

In the following fine ballad the German influence is manifest.  It is extant in two different texts.  We give it in Bowring’s version, which has less of amplification and embellishment than is usual in English translations.

THE DEAD LOVE.

  I sought the dark wood where the oat grass was growing;
  The maidens were there and that oat grass were mowing.

  And I called to those maidens:  “Now say if there be
  The maiden I love ’midst the maidens I see?”

  And they sighed as they answered:  “Ah no! alas no! 
  She was laid in the bed of the tomb long ago.” [57]

  “Then show me the way where my footsteps must tread,
  To reach that dark chamber, where slumber the dead.”

  “The path is before thee, her grave will be known,
  By the rosemary wreaths her companions have thrown.”

  “And where is the church in church-yard, whose heaps
  Will point out the bed where the blessed one sleeps?”

  So twice to the church-yard in sadness I drew,
  But I saw no fresh heap and no grave that was new.

  I turned, and with heart-chilling terror I froze,
  And a newly made grave at my feet slowly rose.

  And I heard a low voice, but it audibly said,
  “Disturb not, disturb not the sleep of the dead!

  “Who treads on my bosom? what footsteps have swept
  The dew from the bed where the weary one slept?”

  “My maiden, my maiden, so speak not to me,
  My presents were once not unwelcome to thee!”

  “Thy presents were welcome, but none could I save,
  Not one could I bring to the stores of the grave.