At the Hamlet's Outskirts

Outside the hamlet, on the sands
Of Szamosh's banks, an inn there stands,
Which in the stream were mirrored clear,
Did eventide not draw so near.

The night draws nigh, the daylight wanes,
And quiet o'er the landscape reigns;
The swinging bridge is safely bound,
And darkness girds it all around.

But, in the tavern, hark the noise.
The laugh and shout of village boys.
The sound of cymbals cleaves the air;
The gipsy-player tarries there.

"Come, pretty hostess, darling mine,
Pray give us some of your best wine;
Let it possess my grandsire's years
With fervor such as is my dear's.

"Strike, gypsy boy, strike up! I swear
I want to dance a livelier air —
My money all to you I roll;
To-night I'll dance away my soul."
But some one knocks. "My master says
Too great the noise is that you raise;
Unless in bounds your mirth you keep,
He swears he cannot go to sleep!"

"Bad luck to you! — your master tell
That both of you can go to hell!
Play, gypsy boy, for spite now play,

Even if my shirt the piper pay. "
Again a knock comes. "For God's sake,
Pray do not such a turmoil make!
I beg of you now to be still,
My mother lies near here very ill."

None answer her. The noise has ceased,
Their passion quickly is appeased.
Mute has become the gypsy's play,
The boys in silence homeward straw