Essays in the Study of Folk-Songs (1886) Part 7

That falcon Death seized My dear and sweet-voiced turtle dove and wounded me.

They took my sweet-toned little lark And flew away through the skies!

Before my eyes they sent the hail On my flowering green pomegranate, My rosy apple on the tree, Which gave fragrance among the leaves.

They shook my flouris.h.i.+ng beautiful almond tree, And left me without fruit; Beating it they threw it on the ground And trod it under foot into the earth of the grave.

What will become of wretched me!

Many sorrows surrounded me.

O, my G.o.d, receive the soul of my little one And place him at rest in the bright heaven!

The birds of Armenia are countless in their number and variety, from vulture to wren; there are so many of them that a man (it is said poetically) may ride for miles and miles and never see the ground, which they entirely cover, except over the small s.p.a.ce from which they fly up with a deafening whizz to make a pa.s.sage for his horse. At times the plains have the appearance of being dyed rose-colour through the swarms of the gorgeous red goose which congregate upon them, whilst here and there a whitish spot is formed by a troop of his grey-coated relatives. It seems that the Armenian has found out why it was the wild goose and the tame one separated from each other. Once upon a time, when all were wild and free, one goose said to another on the eve of a journey, "Mind you are ready, my friend, for, Inshallah (please G.o.d), I set out to-morrow morning." "And so will I," he profanely replied, "whether it pleases G.o.d or not." Sure enough next morning both geese were up betimes, and the religious one spread out his wings and sailed off lightly towards the distant land. But, lo!

when the impious goose tried to do likewise, he flapped and flapped and could not stir from the ground. So a countryman caught him, and he and his children for ever fell into slavery.

The partridge is a great favourite of the Armenian, who does not tire of inventing lyrics in its honour. Here is a specimen:

The sun beats from the mountain's top, Pretty, pretty: The partridge comes from her nest; She was saluted by the flowers, She flew and came from the mountain's top.

Ah! pretty, pretty, Ah! dear little partridge!

When I hear the voice of the partridge I break my fast on the house-top: The partridge comes chirping And swinging from the mountain's side.

Ah! pretty, pretty, Ah! dear little partridge!

Thy nest is enamelled with flowers, With basilico, narcissus, and water-lily: Thy place is full of dew, Thou delightest in the fragrant odour.

Ah! pretty, pretty, Ah! dear little partridge!

Thy feathers are soft, Thy neck is long, thy beak little, The colour of thy wing is variegated: Thou art sweeter than the dove.

Ah! pretty, pretty, Ah! dear little partridge!

When the little partridge descends from the tree, And with his sweet voice chirps, He cheers all the world, He draws the heart from the sea of blood.

Ah! pretty, pretty, Ah! dear little partridge.

All the birds call thee blessed, They come with thee in flocks, They come around thee chirping: In truth there is not one like thee.

Ah! pretty, pretty, Ah! beautiful little partridge!

Another song gives the piteous plaint of an unhappy partridge who was snared and eaten. "Like St Gregory, they let me down into a deep well; then they took me up and sat round a table, and they cut me into little pieces, like St James the Intercised." The crane, who, with the stork, brings the promise of summer on his wing, receives a warm welcome, and when the Armenian sees a crane in some foreign country he will say to him:--

Crane, whence dost thou come? I am the servant of thy voice.

Crane, hast thou not news from our country? Hasten not to thy flock; thou wilt arrive soon enough! Crane, hast thou not news from our country?

I have left my possessions and vineyard and come hither. How often do I sigh; it seems that my soul is taken from me.

Crane, stay a little, thy voice is in my soul. Crane, hast thou not news from our country? My G.o.d, I ask of thee grace and favour, the heart of the pilgrim is wounded, his lungs are consumed; the bread he eats is bitter, the water he drinks is tasteless. Crane, hast thou not news from our country?

Thou comest from Bagdad, and goest to the frontiers. I will write a little letter and give it to thee. G.o.d will be the witness over thee; thou wilt carry it and give it to my dear ones.

I have put in my letter that I am here, that I have never even for a single day been happy. O, my dear ones, I am always anxious for you! Crane, hast thou not news from our country?

The autumn is near, and thou art ready to go: thou hast joined a large flock: thou hast not answered me, and thou art flown! Crane, go from our country and fly far away!

The nameless author of these lines has had Dante's thought:

Tu proverai s come sa di sale Lo pane altrui ...

It is strange that the Armenians should be at once one of the most scattered peoples on the face of the earth, and one of the most pa.s.sionately devoted to their fatherland.

It should not be forgotten, when reading these Armenian bird-lays, that an old belief yet survives in that country that the souls of the blessed dead fly down from heaven, in the shape of beautiful birds, and perching in the branches of the trees, look fondly at their dear ones on earth as they pa.s.s beneath. When the peasant sees the birds fluttering above overhead in the wood he will on no account molest them, but says to his boy, "That is your dear mother, your little brother, your sister--be a good child, or it will fly away and never look at you again with its sweet little eyes."

The clear cool streams and vast treacherous salt lakes of Armenia are not without their laureates. Thus sings the bard of a mountain rivulet:

"Down from yon distant mountain The water flows through the village, Ha!

A dark boy comes forth, And was.h.i.+ng his hands and face, Was.h.i.+ng, yes was.h.i.+ng, And turning to the water, asked, Ha!

Water, from what mountain dost thou come?

O my cool and sweet water! Ha!

I came from that mountain, Where the old and new snow lie one on the other.

Water, to what river dost thou go?

O my cool and sweet water! Ha!

I go to that river Where the bunches of violets abound. Ha!

Water, to what vineyard dost thou go?

O my cool and sweet water! Ha!

I go to that vineyard Where the vine-dresser is within! Ha!

Water, what plant dost thou water?

O my cool and sweet water! Ha!

I water that plant Whose roots give food to the lamb, The roots give food to the lamb, Where there are the apple tree and the anemone.

Water, to what garden dost thou go?

O my cool and sweet water! Ha!

I go into that garden Where there is the sweet song of the nightingale! Ha!

Water, into what fountain dost thou go?

O my cool and sweet little water!

I go to that fountain Where thy love comes and drinks.

I go to meet her and kiss her chin, And satiate myself with her love.

The dwellers on the sh.o.r.es of Van--the largest lake in Armenia, which is situated between 5000 and 6000 feet above the sea, and covers more than 400 square miles--are celebrated for possessing the poetic gift in a pre-eminent degree. Their district is fertile and picturesque, so picturesque that when Semiramis pa.s.sed that way she employed 12,000 workmen and 600 architects to build her a city on the banks of the lake, which was named Aghthamar, and which she thereafter made her summer residence. The business that brought Semiramis into Armenia was a strange romance. Ara, eighth patriarch of Hayasdan, was famed through all the East for his surpa.s.sing beauty, and the a.s.syrian queen hearing that he was the fairest to look upon of all mortal men, sent him a proposal of marriage; but he, staunch to the faith in the one true G.o.d, which he believed had been transmitted to him from Noah, would have nothing to say to the offer of the idolatrous ruler.

Semiramis, greatly incensed, advanced with her army into the heart of Armenia, and defeated the forces of the Patriarch; but bitter were the fruits of the victory, for Ara, instead of being taken alive, as she had commanded, was struck down at the head of his men, and his beautiful form, stiffened by death, was laid at the queen's feet.

Semiramis was plunged in the wildest despair; she endeavoured to bring him to life by magic; that failing, she had his body embalmed and placed in a golden coffin, which was set in her chamber; no one was allowed to call him dead, and she spoke of him as her beloved consort.

A spot is pointed out to the traveller bearing the name of Ara Seni, "Ara is sacrificed."

The favourite theme of the men of Van is, of course, the treacherous element on which the lot of most of them is cast. One of their songs gives the legend of the "Old Man and the s.h.i.+p." Our Lord, as an old man with a white beard, cried sweetly to the sailors to take him into the s.h.i.+p. The sailors answer that the s.h.i.+p is freighted by a merchant, and the pa.s.sage-money is great. "Go away, white-bearded old man," they say. But our Lord pays the money and comes into the s.h.i.+p. Presently a gale blows up and the sailors are exceeding wroth, for they imagine the strange pa.s.senger has brought them ill-luck. They ask, "Whence didst them come, O sinful man? Thou art lost, and thou hast lost us!"

"I a sinner!" replies the Lord, "give me the s.h.i.+p, and go you to sweet sleep." He made the sign of the cross with his right hand, with his left he steered the helm. It was not yet mid-day when the s.h.i.+p safely reached the sh.o.r.e.

Brothers, arise from your sweet sleep, from your sweet sleep and your sad dreams. Fall at the feet of Jesus; here is our Lord, here is our s.h.i.+p.

"Sweet sleep and sad dreams"--he must have been a true poet who thus crystallised the sense of poor humanity's unrest, even in its profoundest repose. The whole little story strikes one as full of delicate suggestiveness.

One more sample of the style of the Armenian "Lake-school."

ON ONE WHO WAS s.h.i.+PWRECKED ON THE LAKE OF VAN.

We sailed in the s.h.i.+p from Aghthamar, We directed our s.h.i.+p towards Avan; When we arrived before Vosdan We saw the dark sun of the dark day.

Dull clouds covered the sky, Obscuring at once stars and moon; The winds blew fiercely, And took from my eyes land and sh.o.r.e.

Thundered the heaven, thundered the earth, The waters of the blue sea arose; On every side the heavens shot forth fire; Black terror invaded my heart.

There is the sky, but the earth is not seen, There is the earth, but the sun is not seen; The waves come like mountains And open before me a deep abyss.