I often sit and wish that I Could be a kite up in the sky, And ride upon the breeze, and go Whatever way it chanced to blow; Then I could look beyond the town, And see the river winding down, And follow all the ships that sail, Like me, before the merry gale, Until at last with them I came To some place with a foreign name
SLEEP, BEAUTY BRIGHT William Blake wrote this little cradle song. It is rather beautiful, don't you think ?
Sleep, sleep, beauty bright, Dreaming in the joys of night; Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep Little sorrows sit and weep.
Sweee babe, in thy face Soft desires I can trace Secret joys and secret smiles, Pretty little infant wiles.
As the softest limbs I feel, Smiles as of the morning steal O'er thy cheek and o'er thy breast Where thy little heart doth rest. Oh, thy cunning wiles that creep In thy little heart asleep ! When the little heart doeth wake Then the dreadful light shall break.
Doctor Do-Diddily and the Dee-Dot's
A CRAYFISH COMESIDZIE RAK
A CRAYFISH COMES IDZIE RAK A POOR FELLOW NIEBORAK WHEN IT STINGS YOU JAK UGRYZIE THERE WILL BE A MARK ! BĘDZIE ZNAK !
A LITTLE BALLOONBALONIK
OUR LITTLE BALLOON BALONIKU NASZ MALUTKI
IS GROWING, GROWING ROŚNIJ, ROŚNIJ
MORE ROUND. OKRĄGLUTKI.
THE BALLOON IS GROWING BALON ROŚNIE
THAT WAS GOING ŻE AŻ STRACH,
MUCH TOO FAR PRZEBRAŁ MIARĘ
AND … POP !!! NO I … TRACH !!!
OLD BROWN BEARSTARY NIEDŹWIEDŹ
OLD BROWN BEAR STARY NIEDŹWIEDŹ IS SLEEPING SOUNDLY / x2 MOCNO ŚPI / x2
WE ARE AFRAID OF HIM MY SIĘ GO BOIMY WE ARE WALKING TIPTOE /x2 TOENA PALCACH CHODZIMY
WHEN HE WAKES UP JAK SIĘ ZBUDZI HE WILL HAVE US TO EAT / x2 TO NAS ZJE / x2
ONE O’CLOCK PIERWSZA GODZINA – BEAR’S SLEEPING - NIEDŹWIEDŹ ŚPI
TWO O’CLOCK DRUGA GODZINA – BEAR’S SNOREING - NIEDŹWIEDŹ CHRAPIE
THREE O’CLOCK TRZECIA GODZINA – BEAR IS CATCHING !!! - NIEDŹWIEDŹ ŁAPIE !!!
A MAGPIE MEASURED HER PORRIDGE (I)
A MAGPIE MEASURED HER PORRIDGE
SHE BURNED HER TAIL.
THIS ONE SHE GAVE SOME ON THE SPOON
THIS ONE SHE GAVE SOME IN THE BOWL
THIS ONE SHE GAVE SOME IN THE CUP
THIS ONE SHE GAVE SOME ON THE PLATE
THIS ONE SHE GAVE NOTHING BUT FRRR … SHE FLEW
SHE FELL HERE - SHE SAT DOWN HERE - AND SHE HID HERE.
SROCZKA KASZKĘ WARZYŁA (I)
SROCZKA KASZKĘ WARZYŁA OGONEK SPARZYŁA.
TEMU DAŁA NA ŁYŻECZKĘ TEMU DAŁA NA MISECZKĘ TEMU DAŁA DO KUBECZKA TEMU DAŁA NA TALERZYK TEMU NIC NIE DAŁA TYLKO FRRR …… POLECIAŁA.
TU PADŁA - TU SIADŁA - A TU SIĘ SCHOWAŁA.
A MAGPIE MEASURED HER PORRIDGE (II)
A MAGPIE MEASURED HER PORRIDGE SHE BURNED HER TAIL.
THIS ONE SHE GAVE SOME - BECAUSE HE’S SMALL THIS ONE SHE GAVE SOME - BECAUSE HE’S SHORT THIS ONE SHE GAVE SOME - BECAUSE HE’S ASKED THIS ONE SHE GAVE SOME - BECAUSE HE’S CARRIED WATER THIS ONE SHE GAVE NOTHING - BUT FRRR … SHE FLEW
SHE FELL HERE - SHE SAT DOWN HERE -AND SHE HID HERE.
SROCZKA KASZKĘ WARZYŁA (II)
SROCZKA KASZKĘ WARZYŁA OGONEK SPARZYŁA.
TEMU DAŁA BO MALUTKI TEMU DAŁA BO KRÓTCIÓTKI TEMU DAŁA BO SIĘ PROSIŁ TEMU DAŁA BO WODĘ NOSIŁ A TEMU NIC NIE DAŁA TYLKO FRRR …POLECIAŁA.
TU PADŁA - TU SIADŁA - A TU SIĘ SCHOWAŁA.
A LITTLE LADYBIRD
A LITTLE LADYBIRD MET A FEW LITTLE WORMS
1. SHE GREETED THIS ONE 2. STROKED THIS ONE 3. WAVED TO THIS ONE 4. WANTED TO GRAB THIS ONE 5. SAID GOODBYE TO THIS ONE
AND FLEW TO THE SKY
BIEDRONECZKA MAŁA
BIEDRONECZKA MAŁA ROBACZKI SPOTKAŁA
1. Z TYM SIĘ PRZYWITAŁA 2. TEGO POGŁASKAŁA 3. TEMU POMACHAŁA 4. TEGO ZABRAĆ CHCIAŁA 5. TEGO POŻEGNAŁA
I DO NIEBA POLECIAŁA
Dr Do-Diddily and the Dee-Dot's
NONSENSE FROM SERBIA
A little boy came to a mill with a bag of corn that he wanted ground. As he
was a Serbian and every Serbian knows that beardless men are a crafty
race, the boy was sorry to see that the miller's chin was as smooth as
an egg. However the corn was ground, and the miller said: "I tell you
what my son, I'll make this into a loaf for you.". The loaf was mixed and baked, and as it steamed on the ground the miller said: "Of
course I expect half of it for my trouble; yet it seems a pity to cut
it. I've a good idea; the one who can say the most nonsensical things
shall have the loaf. The poor boy was forced to submit, and the miller began. He said: "There was once a king, a silent woman and a grateful man."
"That is only sneering," returned the boy. "I can tell you something
worth listening to." He set his wits to work with a will, and this is
the tale he told the miller.
In my young days when I was an old
man we had many beehives, and I used to count the bees every morning. I
counted them easily enough, but I could never contrive to count the
beehives. Well one morning as I was counting the bees I was greatly
surprised to find that my best bee was missing, so I straddled a cock,
mounted it, and started in search of it. I traced it to the sea shore,
and saw that it had gone over the sea, so I decided to follow it.
When I had crossed the water I discovered that a peasant had caught my
bee; he was ploughing his fields with it and was about to sow millet.
So I exclaimed, "That is my bee! How did you get it?" And the ploughman
answered, Brother, if this is really your bee you can come over here
and take it." So I went over to him and he gave me back my bee and a sack of millet on account of the services my bee had rendered him. Then
I put the sack on my back, and moved the saddle from the cock to the
bee. Then I mounted the bee, and led my cock behind me that it might
rest a little. As I was crossing the sea one of the strings of my
sack burst, and all the millet poured into the water. When I had got
across, it was already night, so I alighted and let the bee loose to
graze; as to the cock, I fastened him near me and gave him some hay.
After that I laid myself down to sleep. When I rose next morning
great was my surprise to see that during the night the wolves had
slaughtered and devoured my bee; and the honey was spread about the
valley knee deep and ankle deep on the hills. Then I was puzzled to
know in what vessel I could gather up the honey.
Meantime I remember I had a little axe with me, so I went into the
woods to catch a beast in order to make a bag of its skin. When I
reached the forest I saw two deer dancing on one leg; so I threw my
axe, broke their leg, and caught them both. From the two deer I drew
three skins and made a bag of each, and in them gathered up all the
honey. Then I loaded the cock with the bags and started hurriedly
homeward. When I arrived I found that my father had just been born,
and I was told to go to heaven to fetch some holy water. I did not know
how to get there, but as I pondered the matter I remembered the millet
which had fallen into the sea. I went back to that place, and found
that the grain had grown up quite to heaven, for the spot where it fell
happened to be rather damp. So I climbed up one of the stems. Upon
reaching heaven I found that the millet had ripened, and an angel had
harvested the grain and made a loaf of it, and was eating it with some
warm milk. I greeted him, saying, "Good-morrow to you!" The angel replied. "And to you neighbour!" and gave me some holy water.
On my way back I found that there had been a great rain, and the sea
had risen so high that my millet was carried away. I was frightened to
think how I should descend again to Earth; but at length I remembered
that I had long hair - it is so long that when I am standing upright it
reaches down to the ground and when I sit it reaches to my ears . Well,
I took out my knife and cut off one hair after another, tying them end
to end with great care as I descended on them. Meantime darkness overtook me before I got to the bottom, and so I decided
to make a large knot and pass the night on it. But what was I to do
without a fire? A tinder box I had with me , but I had no wood.
Suddenly I remembered that I had in my vest a sewing needle. So I split
it and made a fire, which warmed me nicely; then I laid myself down to
sleep. When I fell asleep, unfortunately, a flame burned the
hair through, and head over heels I fell to the ground, and sank into
the earth up to my girdle. When I found that I was tightly interred I
hurried home for a spade, and came back and dug myself out with it.
As soon as I was freed I took the holy water and started for home. When
I arrived reapers were working in the field. It was such a hot day that
I feared the poor men would burn to death, and I called them: "Why
do you not fetch our mare which is two days journey long and half a day
broad, and on whose back large willows are growing? She would make some
shade where you are working." My father hearing this, quickly
brought the mare, and the reapers went on working in the shade. Then I
took a jug in which to fetch some water. When I came to the well I
found the water was quite frozen, so I took my head off and broke the
ice with it; then I filled the jug and carried the water to the thirsty
reapers. When
they saw me they asked me, "Where is your head?" I lifted my hands, and
to my great surprise my head was not upon my shoulders, and then I
remembered having left it by the well. I went back at once, but on the
way I met a man with no legs cleaning his boots by the roadside. He
asked for charity and I gave him my favourite button. He thanked me
with tears in his eyes, exclaiming, "In return for this I will tell you
a secret which I learned from a witch: Water is Wet."
Terrified at the strange news I went on to the well, but found that a
fox was there before me, and was busy devouring my head. I approached
slowly and struck the beast fiercely with my foot, so that in great
fear it dropped a little book. This I picked up, and, on opening it,
found written in it these wise words, "The whole loaf is for thee, and
Beardless is to get nothing!" The miller was so stunned by
this torrent of nonsense that he said nothing as the boy picked up his
loaf and walked away in triumph..
THIS HAS TO BE ONE OF MY FAVOURITE STORIES OUT OF EVERY WEBSITE I HAVE MADE., IT IS BRILLIANT AND SO HARD TO BELIEVE SOMEONE ACTUALLY WROTE IT.
Dr. Do-Diddily and the Dee-Dot's
Custom Search
A BEAUTIFUL STORY FROM ALBANIA
The
Legend of Rozafa
This is just a most beautiful and very said story
In the background of the
Shkodra
city, the "Rozafa" castle rises imposingly
on a rocky hill, 130meter above the sea level. It seems as if
iron claws keep it on the steep rocks, surrounded by the Buna
and Drini rivers.
The castle is known by the topomym "Rozafa" The
hill on which castle lies, is in the center of all routes. The
German author Johan Georgvan Han has asserted that no other
place would be as suitable for its construction as the one chosen
by the ancestors who were well aware of this fact. The castle
has faced the torrents of history for thousands of years retaining
ancient and medieval traces which are inseparably bound up with
the roots of Shkodra
city.
Its legend, archeology and history testify
to its early existence. The legend is about the initiative of
three brothers who set about building the castle. They worked
all day, but the walls fell down at night. They met a clever
old man who advised them to sacrifice someone so that the walls
would stand. The three brothers found it difficult to decide
whom to sacrifice. Finally, they decided to sacrifice one of
their wives who would bring lunch to them the next day. So they
agreed that whichever of their wives was the one to bring them
lunch the next day was the one who would be buried in the wall
of the castle. They also promised not to tell their wives of
this. The two older brothers, however, explained the situation
to their wives that night, while the honest youngest brother
said nothing.
The next afternoon at lunch time, the brothers
waited anxiously to see which wife was carrying the basket of
food. It was Rosafa, the wife of the youngest brother. He explained
to her what the deal was, that she was to be sacrificed and
buried in the wall of the castle so that they could finish building
it, and she didn't protest.
The faithfulness of the youngest brother and
the life sacrifice of his young wife are highlighted as elements
thas acquire symbolic importance. Rozafa, who was predestined
to be walled was worried about her infant son, though accepted
being walled on condition that they must leave her right breast
exposed so as to feed her newborn son, her right hand to caress
him and her right foot to rock his cradle.
I plead
When you wall me
Leave my right eye exposed
Leave my right hand exposed
Leave my right foot exposed
for the sake of my newborn son
so that when he starts crying
Let me see him with one eye
Let me caress him with one hand
Let me feed him with one breast
Let me rock his cradle with one foot
May the castle breast be walled
May the castle rise strong
May my son be happy
This was done, and that is why there is a stone
in the castle from which, even today, milk still flows.
Oh my such a sad, yet beautiful legend. Which I collected from http://www.geocities.com/spiritofalbania/legendofrozafa where there are many more beautiful things about Albania.
Another piece from ALBANIA this time a wonderful poem. by
Jeronim De Rada (1814-1903)
BIOGRAPHY
(1814-1903), known in Albanian as Jeronim De Rada, is not only
the best known writer of Italo-Albanian literature but also the
foremost figure of the Albanian nationalist movement in
nineteenth-century Italy.
The Earth had Transformed the Oaks
The earth had transformed the oaks,
Fresh sea water sparkled
Blue at the new day rising;
But the dove of Anacreon
Lived on in ancient Tempe.
One day it departed for the mountains for water
And did not return as was its habit.
It did not freeze in the snow
Nor was it wounded by an arrow,
But flew onward until it landed
At my happy home.
When the house and land
Reappeared beside the sea at dawn,
What joy welled in my eyes.
It awoke me, brushing
Against the window panes.
I arose and looked outside:
The grapes in the ripening vineyards
Covered our fields,
The blossoming flax
Swayed in the wind,
Gently smiling, and like its blossoms
Was the colour of the sky.
You could look out and forget
The cares of this world.
The gleaners were singing
Amidst the sheaves. I had just
Returned from abroad, to be reunited
With my sisters. My name was
Constantly on my mother's lips.
A joy filled my body
Like that of a fair maiden
Who, in the warmth of her bed at night,
Senses her breasts Beginning to swell.
Canti di Milosao, excerpt from canto 1, Naples
1836, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, and first published
in English in History of Albanian literature, New York 1995, vol. 1, p.
163-164]
Can a Kiss be Sweeter?
It was Sunday morning
And the son of the noble matron
Went to visit the fair maid
To ask for a drop of water,
For he was dying of thirst.
He found her alone by the hearth
Braiding her hair.
They loved one another, but spoke not of their love,
The maiden with a smile on her lips:
'Why must you fly off like the wind?'
'They're awaiting me for discus throwing.'
'Wait a moment, I've kept
Two ripe apples for you.'
Holding her combed hair
With one raised hand
Over her pale ears,
She plunged the other into her bodice
And pulled out the apples,
Placing them in his hands,
Blushing with embarrassment.
Tell me, oh lovers, Can a kiss be sweeter?
[Canti di Milosao, excerpt
from canto 4, Naples 1836, translated from the Albanian by Robert
Elsie, and first published in English in History of Albanian
literature, New York 1995, vol. 1, p. 167-168]
Born the son of a parish priest of Greek rite in
Macchia Albanese (Alb. Maqi) in the mountains of Cosenza, De Rada
attended the college of Saint Adrian in San Demetrio Corone. Already
imbued with a passion for his Albanian lineage, he began collecting
folklore material at an early age. In October of 1834, in accordance
with his father’s wishes, he registered at the Faculty of Law of the
University of Naples, but the main focus of his interests remained
folklore and literature. It was in Naples in 1836 that De Rada
published the first edition of his best known Albanian-language poem,
the ‘Songs of Milosao,’ under the Italian title Poesie albanesi del
secolo XV. Canti di Milosao, figlio del despota di Scutari (Albanian
poetry from the 15th century. Songs of Milosao, son of the despot of
Shkodra). He was soon forced to abandon his studies due to a cholera
epidemic in Naples and returned home to Calabria. His second work,
Canti storici albanesi di Serafina Thopia, moglie del principe Nicola
Ducagino, Naples 1839 (Albanian historical songs of Serafina Thopia,
wife of prince Nicholas Dukagjini), was seized by the Bourbon
authorities because of De Rada’s alleged affiliation with
conspiratorial groups during the Italian Risorgimento. The work was
republished under the title Canti di Serafina Thopia, principessa di
Zadrina nel secolo XV, Naples 1843 (Songs of Serafina Thopia, princess
of Zadrina in the 15th century) and in later years in a third version
as Specchio di umano transito, vita di Serafina Thopia, Principessa di
Ducagino, Naples 1897 (Mirror of human transience, life of Serafina
Thopia, princess of Dukagjin). His Italian-language historical tragedy
I Numidi, Naples 1846 (The Numidians), elaborated half a century later
as Sofonisba, dramma storico, Naples 1892 (Sofonisba, historical
drama), enjoyed only modest public response. In the revolutionary year
1848, De Rada founded the newspaper L’Albanese d’Italia (The Albanian
of Italy) which included articles in Albanian. This bilingual
‘political, moral and literary journal’ with a final circulation of
3,200 copies was the first Albanian-language periodical anywhere.
Dr. Do Diddily and the Dee - Dot's
A pair of hair disks. Silver. Ninth century, from Rakamaz.
(Notice the twin eaglets, this reminds me of the Twin Eagles of Hadur, Hunor
and Magyar,in Kate Seredy's story The White Stag.)
IN THE REALM OF SONG THERE IS NO KING
Hungary is a land of music and of poetry. Go into a wayside inn of an evening and you will meet there the shoemaker, the storekeeper, a farmer or two, the blacksmith, each and every one transformed into a musician. One has his violin, another his bass viol, a third his flute or horn; and together they will extemporize the most bewitching music. Naturally the legends of their country are many, and many of them are set to music, songs and ballads, familier in every household; and some of the best of these legends have to do with poetry and the poet himself, the minstrel, or bard, who in Hungary is held in the same esteem as in Wales. The story I have in mind is told in honour of Klingsohr of Hungary, and the scene opens, not in Hungary but in Germany, just across the border. It was at the beginning of the thirteenth century that the Landgrave Hermann of Thuringia invited all the poets of his court to compete for a prize, and told them they themselves might choose what the prize should be for him who, in the Landgrave's judgement, composed and recited or sang the best poem.
The poets found it no easy matter to come to the choice of a prize. One proposed a golden crown, another a goodly sum of money, another a knighthood and a castle; but none of these satisfied the majority who felt that, after all, success itself was a sufficient reward for the man who loved his work, and failure would make him so miserable that he would hardly care to live. So eventually it was voted that the victor should receive just a wreath of bay leaves, and should be proclaimed king of poets; while those who were vanquished should be prepared to die at the hands of the executioner And so it was no wonder, therefore, that although many had attended the preliminary meeting, Reinhard von Zwetzen, Bitterolf, Walther von der Vogelweide, Heinrich von Veldech, and their peers, when it came to the final test only two, Heinrich von Ofterdingen and Wolfram von Eschenbach, proved confident and willing to put their fortune to the touch, to win or lose it all.
On the day chose for the contest, the whole court, ladies in rich silks and velvets, knights, their armour laid aside, clad in garments hardly less gorgeous than those of the ladies they attended, great dignitaries of the church, in purple and scarlet and gold, were assembled in the hall of the palace at Wartburg. The doors were thrown open wide so that the crowds, could see something of the splendid pageant. The Landgrave sat on his throne at the head of the hall, and by his side the beautiful Landgravine Sophia, who held the crown of bays in her hand. At a sign from the Landgrave, Heinrich von Ofterdingen stepped forward, he struck a few chords on his harp and began his song. His theme was of love, the love of parent and child, of husband and wife, of friend and friend. As he sang, such was his power, each one in the great assemblage seemed to see his own home, the faces of those who were dear to him, and to live over the days of his happiest comradeships. And when he had finished, a great shout of approval went up, no one doubting that the prize must be his. But Wolfram, with a proud smile, took the harp and began to play a great battle march, the prelude to his theme, which was heroism, the self sacrifice which leaves home and friends and all that is dear and lays down life itself in a great cause. His maritial strains, his thrilling words, swept away all memory of Heinrich's song, and there was not a single dissenting voice when the Landgrave rose from his seat and declared Wolfram to be the victor.
At once the executioner in his red cloak, his great polished sword in his hand, made his way through the crown to the foot of the throne. The Landgraveasked Heinrich if he wished to say anything before he died. The vanquished poet turned a fearless face to the multitude. "I do not question the justice of the decision," said he. "Wolfram is a greater poet than I and has fairly won in this contest. But I cannot own him to be king of poets. In a distant land I know of one who, if given my theme, would easily surpass Wolfram. It is I that am unworthy, and not the theme of which I sang. He threw off his cloak and turned to follow the executioner. ut Wolfram raised his hand and said in a loud voice, "Stop, stop! I do not want the crown on these terms. Let Heinrich bring here the poet of whom he speaks, and prove his claim, or else confess he has lied because he is afraid to die." "Give me a yeear from this day," answered Heinrich, "and I will search Hungary from end to end until I find the man of whom I speak, his name is Klingsohr of Hungary, and I will bring him here to make good my claim. If but a single voice declares against him, I will gladly forfeit my life." "Very well," said the Landgrave; but if you fail to keep your appointment, your harp and your shield shall be hewn to pieces by the executioner, and your name shall be a byword among your people.
Month after month Heinrich journeyed hither and thither through the fair land of Hungary, and everywhere, at morning, noon, and night, in the wayside inn, in the workshops of the cities, in the wide fields of the countryside, he hears the people singing songs which he feels sure must have been composed by Klingsohr. In the mountains he hears the miners singing at their work, and he asks them if Klingsohr tught their song to them. "It is the song the waters sing as they drop from the shining walls of the caverns of the earth. It was there we learned it," they answered. "We never heard of Klingsohr." He comes out into the sunshine and wanders among the vineyards on the lower slopes of the hills, where the vintages are singing in happy chorus as they bear great baskets of purple grapes to the wine press. "Surely that is one of Klingsohr's songs you are singing, and can you tell me where he lives." "But we do not know who wrote it, and we never heard of one Klingsohr; but it seems to be in tune with the warm sun and the purple hillsides." He enters the green depths of the forests and catches the notes of the hunter's horn playing a melody that seems the very voice of the forest itself; that surely must have been composed by Klingsohr. But the hunter is a s ignotant as the vintager regarding Klingsohr. As for the tune, all the people thereabouts know it. It is a people's song. A like baffling answer meets his questioning of the shepherd singing beside his fire and the reaper swinging his scythe in time with a harvest song. So he goes on, everywhere hearing what he feels sure to be the song of the poet, but nowhere finding a trace of the poet himself, until one night, just after the sun has set, he comes out on the green plain through which the river Theiss flows and hears a voice singing the praises of the great plain of Hungary, more impressive in its vastness than the grandest mountains of earth, more plentiful in its returns to faithful labour than are the little valleys of other lands that lie among the hills, most beautiful when the morning sun lights up the million of dewdrops sparkling on its long waving grass, flashing with all the colours of the opal, which is Hungary's especial contribution to the jewels of the earth. Then Heinrich knows he is in the presence of the man he seeks, and falling at his feet makes known his errand. "You sing here in this lonely wilderness, unknown and unhonoured. Even those who sing your songs do not know your name. Come to Germany," pleads Heinrich, "and be crowned by kings and honoured by all the people." "The dominion of the poet is not within the gift of any earthly king," answers Klingsohr. "When people sing his songs he reigns in their hearts, whether they know his name or not. And that tribute they pay not to him who sings for the sake of dominion, but to him who sings as the nightengale sings, because he cannot help it. Still I will go with you, but not for the crown or the honour."
A year had passed since Heinrich went out from the Landgrave's court. It was the day on which he had promised to return. Once more the court had assembled in the great hall and the people thronged without. The shadow on the dial pointed to noon. The Landgrave beckoned to the executioner who walked toward Heinrich's harp and shield, that lay in the centre of the hall, and a breathless silence fell upon the multitude as he raised his sword. But before it fell, a sound of galloping horses was heard, and amid the cheers of the people Heinrich and Klingsohr, dusty and travel-stained, entered the hall. Bowing to the Landgrave, Klingsohr took up the harp. In the first few strains his marvellous power was revealed; and as he went on, knight and peasant, king and courtier, the wisest councellor and the little child, who had strayed in attracted by the waving banners and the music, all alike were under his spell and felt as if the minstrel were singing to him alone. Wolfran took the crown of bays from his own head, and, placing it on Klingsohr's, silently clasped Heinrich's hand. The Landgrave begged the great minstrel to stay in his kingdom and receive the glory that was his due. But Klingsohr gently put aside the crown "For," said he, "in the realm of song there is no king; the bay buds and brings forth new leaves every spring. There are enough for us all."
Then leaping on his horse, he rode away and was never seen in Germany again. His chronicler tells us that he went back to the vast plains of Hungary. "His songs died away with the winds, but their spirit yet lives in the glees of the people, in the songs of the Hungarian heath."
Local History of
Wolframs-Eschenbach Already in the 8th century a settlement
with church and burial area is verifiable near Eschenbach brook.
Around
1212/20 the Teutonic Order settled in Eschenbach and founded an administrative
order district.
In 1332 the Teutonic Order obtained municipal law by
Emperor Ludwig dem Bayern (the Bavarian).
In the year 1796 the Prussians
occupied Eschenbach city and the bailiwick of the Teutonic Order. In 1806 the
integration of Eschenbach into the Kingdom of Bavaria took place and in 1809 the
Teutonic Order was secularised finally In May 1917 the renaming
occurred: Obereschenbach is called Wolframs-Eschenbach since then, in honour of
the famous poet.
Dr Do Diddily and the Dee - Dot's
HUNGARY
Paprika is made by grinding dried red peppers into a fine powder, and
can vary in spiciness. Most supermarkets and Eastern European markets
carry "sweet" and "hot" varieties; choose according to your preference.
Look for paprika in jars or decorated tins in the spice section. Don't
confuse it with pimentón, smoked Spanish paprika.
Many good brands of paprika come from Hungary, where paprika is
commonly used as an ingredient in dishes like paprikás; in the U.S.,
paprika is often sprinkled on deviled eggs, hash browns, and other
dishes for color and flavor.
Chicken
Paprikash
Chicken is pan fried in
butter and paprika and served with sautéed mushrooms and onions. Delicious
Hungarian comfort food.
Recipe provided
by:
Allrecipes
Ingredients
4
skinless, boneless chicken breast fillets
1
teaspoon paprika
salt
and freshly ground black pepper to taste
50g
(2 oz) butter
1
onion, sliced into thin rings
500g
(1 1/4 lb) fresh mushrooms, sliced
preparation
method
Pound chicken
breasts to 1cm (1/4 in) thickness. Sprinkle both sides of each chicken breast
liberally with paprika, salt and pepper.
In a large
frying pan, melt the butter over low heat. Add the chicken breast, cover and
cook over medium heat for 10 minutes. Turn chicken breasts over and layer the
thinly sliced onions and mushrooms on top of the chicken. Cover and cook for 10
minutes.
Remove lid
and mix onions and mushrooms into the butter pan sauce, reduce heat to low and
cook uncovered for 5 minutes.
Tip:
For
a true Hungarian touch, serve with soured cream. " actually I also like plain yoghurt with mine."
HUNGARY
Dr. Do Didddily and the Dee - Dot's
Legend of the Wonderous Stag
The Hungarian this is one of the oldest
legends of the nation. It is so old that it is found in various
forms among those nations who were the distant relatives or neighbors
of the Hungarians, long before their settlement in Hungary. The
meaning and the wording of the legends may have changed slightly
but they all have much in common. Today the remaining legend is
relatively short, whereas in the past it was probably much more
extensive. However the Hungarian legend despite it's brevity includes
in it many important points some of which can be found in most
of the related legends found in other cultures. It is these points
which show that once, in the remote antiquity, these people were
neighbours or some were even related.
The symbol of the cosmos and the mother of the sun was symbolized
as a large horned female doe. The great horned doe often was shown
carrying the sun in her horns, in some cases the sun itself was
symbolized as a stag the son of the doe of the legend. The following
Christmas song told by the Hungarian regos (bards) illustrate
the stag as the carrier of the sun.
The hind represents not the sun, but it's mother, the heavenly
firmament, the cosmos, which carries the stars, the sun and the
moon in it's "horns". For these reasons the Scythian
stags often represented the horns of the stag like flames.
The Man in a Monk's Habit (An Hungarian Legend)
Hundreds of years ago the Hungarians were a race of Valiant knights who worshipped Hadur, the God of War. Never were men of greater courage and endurance, more true of word, more merciless in war. But by and by a few monks came into that warlike land preaching the new religion of peace and goodwill, forgiveness and brotherly love. Half the people, led by the king, embraced this new faith; but the other half hated it bitterly, and so the land was plunged into civil war, the pennons of one side showing the angry countenance of Hadur, while the banners of the other bore the mild, thorn crowned head of Christ. The chief man on Hadur's side was an old chieftain called Zeta, the descendant of a long line of heroes. Men whispered that his mother was a fairy, and that he had a horse that spoke at midnight. This horse, they said, had told Zeta, that it was useless to follow the religion of peace while the world was still full of wickedness, envy, hate and warfare. Zeta thereupon took an oath to slay everyone he saw in a monk's habit, and to devote his last days to fighting for the cause of Hadur. A large army was sent against the king, with Zeta's only son Szilard at its head.This youth was as handsome, fearless, and merry a knight as ever leaped into the saddle, and Zeta loved him more than the world. But when this army met the king's it was utterly routed by the Christian troops. The few who were not slain on the foeld were so grieviously wounded that they had not even the strength to take their own lives in order to escape the shame of being made prisoner. News reached Zeta that this fate had befallen his son. Everyone was sure that the king would order the young rebel leader to be killed. Szilard's father and sisters put on mourning, and shut themselves up with their sorrow. They cared for nothing, though their followers kept an anxious look out for spears of the royal army shining across the plain on its way to punish the pagan chieftain. One day a monk was seen approaching the fortress. The very scullions gathered to laugh and wonder at the impudence of such a thing. As for Zeta all his grief changed into a savage desire for revenge. The Christians had taken his son; a Christian was about to fall into his hands. He ordered his men to prepare a stake and a pile of brushwood. But suddenly the people began to cry: "Look it is Szilard! Szilard dressed in a monk's habit!" The sisters and servants ran out with cries of welcome, but Zeta stood white and as cold as stone. When Szilard came up to him he said, "I would rather see my son dead in armour than alive in the dress of a traitor!" "Father," replied the youth, "I should be a traitor to Truth if I wore any other dress! How can a knight deny Truth once he has seen her?" Then, glowing with all the ardour of a convert, the young man said he had returned so that he might lead his kindred into the way of peace. With each word Zeta's wrath increased. Was his heroic line to be shamed by this coward who had bought his life by betraying the religion of his forefathers? He shouted to Szilard to be silent, and reminded him: "I have sworn to burn everyone I find in a monk's habit!" The sisters screamed for mercy, but the youth replied: "I am ready to die at the stake for Christ, as I was ready to die in battle for Hadur!" "Take off that garb and forswear that coward's faith, or I fulfil the oath!" cried Zeta. "Never!" said Szilard. "Father, you must keep your oath." The two looked in each other's eyes and saw their own obstinacy there. "So be it!" shouted Zeta. Szilard stepped to the stake of his own accord, and his face was as calm as a summer's day while the soldiers bound him and piled the brushwood to his knees. As the fuel began to smoke and crackle about the heroic monk, Zeta cried out in tones of anguish and tenderness that were new to his rough lips: "Oh my son, my son! Deny the Christ! Return to me!" "Never!" cried Szilard through the smoke. "But you, too, shall become a Christian before you die." No sooner was the youth's torture over than the sky grew black with thunder, the earth cracked, and the castle of Zeta was swallowed, with all its people. The Hungarians believe that they live in the bowels of the Earth, worshipping Hadur to this day, and so they shall dwell for ever till Szilard's prophecy is fulfilled.
A little boy came to a mill with a bag of corn that he wanted ground. As 
he
was a Serbian and every Serbian knows that beardless men are a crafty
race, the boy was sorry to see that the miller's chin was as smooth as
an egg. However the corn was ground, and the miller said: "I tell you
what my son, I'll make this into a loaf for you.". 
So I went over to him and he gave me back my bee and a sack of millet on account of the services my bee had rendered him.
Upon
reaching heaven I found that the millet had ripened, and an angel had
harvested the grain and made a loaf of it, and was eating it with some
warm milk.
decided
to make a large knot and pass the night on it. But what was I to do
without a fire? A tinder box I had with me , but I had no wood.
Suddenly I remembered that I had in my vest a sewing needle. So I split
it and made a fire, which warmed me nicely; then I laid myself down to
sleep.
When
they saw me they asked me, "Where is your head?" I lifted my hands, and
to my great surprise my head was not upon my shoulders, and then I
remembered having left it by the well. I went back at once, but on the
way I met a man with no legs cleaning his boots by the roadside. He
asked for charity and I gave him my favourite button. He thanked me
with tears in his eyes, exclaiming, "In return for this I will tell you
a secret which I learned from a witch: Water is Wet."
beautiful Landgravine Sophia, who held the crown of bays in her hand. At a sign from the Landgrave, Heinrich von Ofterdingen stepped forward, he struck a few chords on his harp and began his song.
"Very well," said the Landgrave; but if you fail to keep your appointment, your harp and your shield shall be hewn to pieces by the executioner, and your name shall be a byword among your people.
vintager regarding Klingsohr. As for the tune, all the people thereabouts know it. It is a people's song. A like baffling answer meets his questioning of the shepherd singing beside his fire and the reaper swinging his scythe in time with a harvest song.
A year had passed since Heinrich went out from the Landgrave's court. It was the day on which he had promised to return. Once more the court had assembled in the great hall and the people thronged without. The shadow on the dial pointed to noon. The Landgrave beckoned to the executioner who walked toward Heinrich's harp and shield, that lay in the centre of the hall, and a breathless silence fell upon the multitude as he raised his sword.
Local History of
One day a monk was seen approaching the fortress. The very scullions gathered to laugh and wonder at the impudence of such a thing. As for Zeta all his grief changed into a savage desire for revenge. The Christians had taken his son; a Christian was about to fall into his hands. He ordered his men to prepare a stake and a pile of brushwood.