Green leaf of the meadow-grass!
Bujor throughout the land doth pass!
He beats, he robs, he does not kill.
The tyrant nobles at his will
With their gold must pay his way,
And give him clothes for every day.

Bujor comes and cries aloud:
“Good luck to thee, my soldier proud!
Follow, children, after me;
I know where the wood-paths be;
I know where are flocks of sheep,
Springs of water, clear and deep,
Where fair women may be found,
And sacks of gold upon the ground.”

In the valley, here and there,
A maiden's sad voice fills the air;
Like a mermaid singeth she,
Bujor robs her of kisses three.

By the stream down in the plain,
Maidens two are washing grain;
'T is Bujor halts in the place,
And gives to each girl an embrace.

In the valley by the pool,
Two fair maids are washing wool;
While each maiden washing stands,
Bujor presses her white hands.

Down the stream two girls have strayed,
Gathering lentils in the shade;
Both girls Bujor has betrayed.

Green leaf of the meadow-grass!
On the frontier lives a lass,
In a tavern scarcely found
For the forest all around;
It is here Bujor is hidden
With Anita the inn-maiden.
Before him a great flask she places,
She makes him drunk with her embraces.

“O Anita, sweetheart mine,
For a small red flower I pine,
Blossomed on that mouth of thine!”
“Stefanica, Bujor dear,
Have thy little flower here;

All my kisses, they are thine,
Take them, but take no more wine,
Not a drop more, for I fear
That the guards are hidden near.”
“Let them come, I 'm not afraid,
On the table lies my blade,
And my love 's the fairest maid!”

He takes one kiss and no more,
For the guards are at the door!
Fierce he fought as a man may,
Bujor could not escape that day.

Green leaf of the meadow-grass!
Bujor throughout the land must pass
Like a wild beast to be shown!
Till within a cell he 's thrown,
Without arms or light, alone!

Forest thick, with branching shade,
Thy fair leaves shall low be laid,
Round about thy feet to fade!
Even so Bujor is found,
With his face upon the ground!

Green leaf of the meadow-grass!
For his trial now, alas!
Bujor to the court must pass.

“Famous bandit, speak and say,
Many Christians dost thou slay?”
“Not a man to death I 've done;
But I 've thrashed tyrants many a one!”

“Stefanica, Bujor bold,
Where dost thou conceal thy gold?
If thou would'st escape now, tell!”
“Under trees 't is hidden well;
Poor men shall find that gold of mine,
And with it buy oxen and kine.”

Green leaf of the meadow-grass!
Up the stair Bujor must pass.
Poor men for him wail and cry:
'T is not the stairway of the high,
Not the stairway to great place,
But the ladder of disgrace,
Where bandits and where thieves are led,—
The black footpath of the dead!