On a stretch of meadow,
At heaven’s very gate,
There appear before me,
Coming down the valley,
Three flocks of fine sheep,
With three shepherds brave.
One is Moldavian,
One is Transylvanian,
And one is Vrancean.
The Transylvanian,
With the Vrancean shepherd,
Spoke together softly,
And they made a plan,
At the sun’s last setting,
To kill the Moldavian—
For he was more noble,
Owned more sheep than they,
Sheep with curling horns,
And steeds trained for war,
And hounds stout and strong.
But the little ewe lamb,
With a dappled fleece,
For three days now past,
Would not touch the grass,
Would not stop her bleating.
“Speckled little ewe,
Darling lamb of mine,
Three days without pause
You’ve been bleating so!
Do you not like grass?
Are you feeling ill,
Lovely little lamb?”
— “Dearest shepherd mine,
Drive your flock downhill,
To the dark green grove—
There the grass is thick,
There is shade for you.
Master, oh my master,
Call your bravest dog,
Your most loyal one—
For at sunset time,
They plan to kill you:
The Vrancean shepherd,
And the one from Transylvania!”
— “Little speckled lamb,
If you are a seer,
And if I must die
Here upon this plain,
Go then, speak to them—
Tell those other shepherds
To bury me nearby,
Here within the sheepfold,
So I’m still with you,
Close behind the stable,
Where I’ll hear my dogs.
This, dear lamb, say too:
Place beside my head
A flute made of beech—
It will sing with love;
A flute made of bone—
It will sound with grief;
A flute made of elder—
It will burn with fire!
When the wind shall blow,
Through the flutes it’ll pass,
The sheep shall all gather,