Little Ewe-Lamb - Miorița

Where the mountains mate,
There is Eden's gate:
They're approaching, lo!
And downhill they go,
Three fair flocks of sheep,
Which their shepherds keep,
One Moldavian,
Transylvanian one,
One a Vrancean man.
The Transylvanian
And the Vrancean man,
Hatched a secret plot,
Whispered there a lot,
To kill outright
At the dusk of night,
The Moldavian,
A rich, wealthy man,
Who had flocks of sheep,
Milk-sheep horned, in keep,
And trained horses too,
Manly dogs not few...!
But the little ewe-lamb there
With her wool so fair
For three days or four
Has kept silent no more
And disliked the grass.
"What's your distress,
Ewe-lamb, little lass,
For three days or four
You've kept silent no more!
Are sick of your litter?
Does the grass taste bitter?"
"My shepherd and lord!
Let's our grazing henceforth
In the dark coppice do:
There's shadow for you
And grass for us too!
My master dear and strong!
Take a watch-dog along,
The most faithful of all,
The manliest of all!
The Transylvanian
And the Vrancean man
Want to kill you outright
At the dusk of the night."
"My Bîrsan ewe,
Wonder-working are you!
If my life I must yield
In the bristle-grass field,
Tell the Transylvanian
And the Vrancean man
To bury me here
In the highlands, near
The pen of my sheep,
That I might sleep
And hear the bark
Of my dogs in the dark;
Now listen well to me:
Here at my head let be
The shepherd's flute of beech
With its dear, dear speech;
The flute of bone,
With its longing drone;
And the fiery flute
Of elder-wood!
Winds will sing their lay,
All the flutes will play
And the sheep will crowd
Wailing me aloud,
Shedding tears of blood.
What to me befell,
You must never tell!
Tell them the truth well:
Wedded I have been
To a gentle queen
Bride of the world in sheen;
And on the wedding-night
Fell a star bright:
Moon and Sun were then
Bridesmaid and bridesman;
Fir-trees, sycamores:
Wedding-guests by scores;
Priests were the mountains high,
Fiddlers the birds that fly,
Birds whom no barrier bars;
Torches the stars!
But if you espy
And if you pass by
My little mother dear,
Girdle of wool and gear,
Going on fields astray,
Shedding tears night and day,
Searching in every way
One, her pain to allay:
'Say, who has known him here,
Say, who has seen him here,
My little shepherd bold,
Threaded trough rings of gold?
Like milk-foam the grace
Of his smiling face,
Like an ear of wheat
Is his moustache neat,
Like a raven-quill his hair
Black and wavy everywhere;
Like blackberries in the lea
Brown and radiant eyes has he!
My dear ewe:
Pity her must you;
Tell her the truth too:
Wedded I have been
To a gentle queen,
Daughter of a king,
Born on Eden's brink.
But of the wonders here
Don't tell my mother dear,
That on my wedding-night
Priests were the mountains high,
Fell a star bright;
Wedding-guests were by scores
Fir-trees and sycamores;
Fiddlers the birds that fly,
Birds whom no barriers bars,
Torches the stars..."