A BULGARIAN WAR POET.

(To THE EDITOR OF me SPECTATOR.")

Sut,--Fletcher of Saltoun quoted with approval the saying of a very wise man who " believed if a man were permitted to make all the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws of a nation." If thin be true, the Bulgarian nation is in sad case.

Let me quote a few stanzas translated from a warrior's song by Ivan Arkendoff, who is known to his countrymen as "tire Bul- garian Pinder ":— " The Sun has risen on the horizon Red with the blood of all our foes.

For what dost wait, my young Bulgarian?

Raise high thy hands that thou mayst bless With blessings that ere steeped in blood

Drive thy-hand in womb of women young,

And rouse to jealousy e'en Lucifer himself.

Before the Sun has risen high in sky Let lakes of blood from thine own sword rise also high!

As dewy vapours rise at dawn to Heaven's King, Let bloody vapour rise round thee A fragrance for the gods.

See the old man! Frailly he totters on, Dragging out decrepit age, Yet death he would escape and flee thy courage.

Bet stamp him under foot, and with thy fork

Gouge out his troubled eyes— Not worthy they a Bulgar's greatness to behold—

Give him his eyes to eat; Three days he's had nor drink nor meat.

For what dost wait, my Bulger young?

Onward, onward, onward!

Bodies all velvet-soft of babes and mothers Make carpet softer far than any April sward.

But taste thou first their morning dew; By force from their fresh youth take pleasure; Drink and intoxicate thy soul I Take thou the fruit, then hurl the peel away, And forward stride on human carpet royal!

Let press thy horse's hoof on woman's bosom soft, Lest that same milk should nourish hostile eons.

For what duet wait, my Bulger young?

Onward, ever onward! 's

A complete version, in French, of this barbaric war song may be found in the Afercure de France for September 16th last. Com- ment is needless. How shall we deal with people to whom such bestial sentiments appeal?—I am, Sir, Ac., X.