The Magyar Maid

The Magyar maid alone should be
The wife of Magyar man,
For she can cook, and only she,
Our soup of red cayenne.

I'll nestle at the village end,
There make my peaceful home,
For there the gentle dovelets wend,
And there my dove shall come.

I mowed the grass, the sheaves I bound,
And labor' d through the day,
Then fell exhausted on the ground—
My maiden was away.

Alas! my heart is orphaned now,
And laid in sorrow's train:
The flowers are dead that wreath'd my brow,
My sickle is in twain.