Joy, I saw death; Joy, I saw her yesterday; I beheld her in a narrow way, like unto a great greyhound, and I was very curious. "Death, whence comest thou?" "I am come from Germany, going thence to Count Roger. I have killed princes, counts, and cavaliers; and now I am come for a young maiden so that with me she may go".
Weep, mamma, weep for me, weep and never rest; weep for me Sunday, Easter, and Christmas Day; for no more wilt thou see thy daughter sit down at thy board to eat, and no more shalt thou await me.
One conclusion forced upon us incidentally by folk-dirges must seem strange when we remember how few are the cultured poetesses who have attained eminence--to wit, that with the unlettered mult.i.tude the poetic faculty is equally the property of women as of men.
In various parts of Italy the funerals of the poor are conducted exclusively by those of like s.e.x with the dead--a custom of which I first took note at Varese in the year 1879. The funeral procession came up slowly by the shady paths near the lake; long before it appeared one could hear the sound of shrill voices chanting a litany.
When it got near to the little church of S. Vittore, it was seen that only women followed the bier, which was carried by women. "Una povera donna morta in parto," said a peasant standing by, as she pointed to the coffin with a gesture of sympathy. The mourners had black shawls thrown over their heads and bore tapers. A sight yet stranger to unaccustomed eyes is the funeral of a child at Spezia. A number of little girls, none older than eleven or twelve, some as young as five, carry the small coffin to the cemetery. Some of the children hold candles; they are nicely dressed in their best frocks; the sun plays on their bare black or golden curls. They have the little serious look of children engaged in some business of work or play, but no look of gloom or sadness. The coffin is covered with a white pall on which lies a large nosegay. No priests or elder persons are there except one man, walking apart, who has to see that the children go the right way. About twenty children is the average number, but there may be sometimes a hundred. When they return, running across the gra.s.s between the road and the sea-wall, they tumble over one another in the scramble to s.n.a.t.c.h daisies from the ground.
It is still common in Lombardy to ring the bells _d"allegrezza_ on the death of an infant, "because its soul goes straight to Paradise." This way of ringing, or, rather, chiming, consists in striking the bell with a clapper held in the hand, when a light, dancing sound is produced, something like that of hand-bells. On a high _festa_ all the bells are used; for dead babies, only two. I have often heard the sad message sounding gaily from the belfry at Sal.
Were I sure that all these songs of the Last Parting would have for others the same interest that they have had for me, I should be tempted to add a study dedicated solely to the dirges of savage nations and of those nations whose civilization has not followed the same course as ours. I must, at all events, indicate the wonderfully strange and wild Polynesian "Death-talks" and "Evas" (dirges proper) collected by the Rev. W. W. Gill. The South Pacific Islanders say of the dying, "he is pa.s.sing over the sea." Their dead set out in a canoe on a long and perilous voyage to the regions of the sun-setting. When they get there, alas!--when they reach the mysterious spirit-land, a horrid doom awaits them: children and old men and women--all, in short, who have not died in battle, are devoured by a dreadful deity, and perish for ever. But this fate does not overtake them immediately; for a time they remain in a shadowy intermediate state till their turn comes. The spirit-journey is described in a dirge for two little children, composed by their father about the year 1796:
"Thy G.o.d,[2] pet-child, is a bad one; For thy body is attenuated; This wasting sickness must end thy days.
Thy form, once so plump, now how changed!
Ah! that G.o.d, that bad G.o.d!
Inexpressibly bad, my child!
Thou hast entered the expanse; And wilt visit "the land of red parrot feathers,"
Where O[=a]rangi was once a guest.
Thou feedest now on ocean spray, And sippest fresh water out of the rocks, Travelling over rugged cliffs, To the music of murmuring billows.
Thy exile spirit is overtaken By darkness at the ocean"s edge.
Fourapapa[3] there sleeps. All three[4]
Stood awhile to gaze wistfully At the glories of the setting sun."
There is much more, but this is perhaps sufficient to show the particular note struck.
I will give, in its entirety, one more dirge--the death-chant of the tribe of Badagas, in the Neilgherry Hills--because it is unique, so far as I know, in reversing the rule _de mortius_, and in charging, instead, the dead man with every sin, to make sure that none are omitted of which he is actually guilty. It is accompanied by a singular ceremony. An unblemished buffalo-calf is led into the midst of the mourners, and as after each verse they catch up and repeat the refrain, "It is a sin!" the performer of the dirge lays his hand upon the calf, to which the guilt is transferred. At the end the calf is let loose; like the Jewish scape-goat, it must be used for no secular work; it bears the sins of a human being, and is sacred till death.
The English version is by Mr C. E. Gover, who has done so much for the preservation of South-Indian folk-songs.
INVOCATION.
In the presence of the great Ba.s.sava, Who sprang from Banige the holy cow.
The dead has sinned a thousand times.
E"en all the thirteen hundred sins That can be done by mortal men May stain the soul that fled to-day.
Stay not their flight to G.o.d"s pure feet.
Chorus--Stay not their flight.
He killed the crawling snake Chorus--It is a sin.
The creeping lizard slew.
It is a sin.
Also the harmless frog.
It is a sin.
Of brothers he told tales.
It is a sin.
The landmark stone he moved.
It is a sin.
Called in the Sircar"s aid.[5]
It is a sin.
Put poison in the milk.
It is a sin.
To strangers straying on the hills, He offered aid but guided wrong.
It is a sin.
His sister"s tender love he spurned And showed his teeth to her in rage.
It is a sin.
He dared to drain the pendent teats Of holy cow in sacred fold.
It is a sin.
The glorious sun shone warm and bright He turned its back towards its beams.[6]
It is a sin.
Ere drinking from the babbling brook, He made no bow of grat.i.tude.
It is a sin.
His envy rose against the man Who owned a fruitful buffalo.
It is a sin.
He bound with cords and made to plough The budding ox too young to work.
It is a sin.
While yet his wife dwelt in his house He l.u.s.ted for a younger bride.
It is a sin.
The hungry begged--he gave no meat, The cold asked warmth--he lent no fire.
It is a sin.
He turned relations from his door, Yet asked unworthy strangers home.
It is a sin.
The weak and poor called for his aid, He gave no alms, denied their woe.
It is a sin.
When caught by thorns, in useless rage He tore his cloth from side to side.
It is a sin.
The father of his wife sat on the floor Yet he reclined on bench or couch.
It is a sin.
He cut the bund around a tank, Set free the living water"s store.
It is a sin.
What though he sinned so much, Or that his parents sinned?
What though the sins" long score Was thirteen hundred crimes?
O let them every one, Fly swift to Bas"va"s feet.
Chorus--Fly swift.
The chamber dark of death Shall open to his soul.
The sea shall rise in waves; Surround on every side, But yet that awful bridge No thicker than a thread, Shall stand both firm and strong.
The dragon"s yawning mouth Is shut--it brings no fear.
The palaces of heaven Throw open wide their doors.
Chorus--Open wide their doors.
The th.o.r.n.y path is steep, Yet shall his soul go safe.
The silver pillar stands So near--he touches it.
He may approach the wall The golden wall of heaven.
The burning pillar"s flame Shall have no heat for him.