A MODERN WAR SONG.

Auckland Star, Volume XLIX, Issue 148, 22 June 1918, Page 17

A MODERN WAR SONG.

(BY THE BULGARIAN COURT POET.)

Pamphlets, even large volumes, have been published on the unprecedented crimes committed by the Bulgarians— and military— the Serbian, Greek, and Turkish populations during both Balkan Wars, and recently in Greet Macedonia. Ferocity is the soul itself of this people; it is inborn in tbe Bulgarian, whatever may be his social condition. Their poets exalt cruelty. The following, for example, a war song, due to the diabolical Imagination of a poet very much in vogue In Bulgaria, Ivan Arnaudoff, recently proclaimed the "Bulgarian Pindare," and honoured, if one may say so, with the title of "Court Poet" the court of the felonious King Ferdinand, worthy master oE his subjects.

FORWARD, YOUNG BULGAR '.

The sun rises to tbe horizon coloured with the blood of our enemies. Why do you tarry, young Bulgar? Lift high your lands that they be blessed by the bloody rays. With the incense of vapours which dawn sends to the king of the skies, make rise the vapour of blood dear to the gods. Forward, young Bulgar, ever forward!

Before the planet of day arises from seven fathoms to the horizon, let the lake of blood which will be shed by your sword rise to seven fathoms. See that decripit old -an who drags his miserable years, seeking to cheat death and your zeal. Fell him under your boot, with a fork tear out his troubled eyes which are unworthy to admire the grandeur of Bulgaria, and give 'hem him to eat, for three days he hungers and thirsts.

Why do you tarry, young Bulgar? Forward, ever forward. The carpet of the velvet bodies of women and children is softer than April's grass. Taste first of their due, charm your soul with the savoury fruit of their youth, and 'hen, when you are intoiicated with Voluptuousness and heroism, scatter the Useless remains and ride over them as on a 'oyal carpet. Let the iron shoe of your horse sink into the breasts of beautiful Women that the milk which vivifies our enemies may dry up. do you tarry, young Bulgar? Forward, ever forward. Son of the typhoon. Imitate your father wherever you pass. Let not one stone rest "l*"! another, not one child rejoice on its toother"s breast, not one old man lean on his grandson's shoulders. Throw their .Walls to the starving dogs which greedily Be* themselves at night, when sniffing yonr Approach, and their souls to the Tartar, •here where the great abyss prepare, to 'Wallow up all souls unworthy to raise

their eyes to the light of the Bulgarian sun; and before God's day arises, let there remain on the ruins which your hand has sown, only skeletons and ghosts, and that there may rise to the sky nought but the odour of burned bodies, dear to the gods of the Bulgarian Olympus. Forward, ever forward! See a chimney still smokes, a pot boils on the Are. a hungry mouth awaits its pittance. Shame to you! Do you not know that from -the moment when you have set your foot here there must remain no food for your enemies other than the earth, which they will bite with ravenous teeth! Make a torch of the old body which stirs up the dying embers in the hearth, light it from end to end, and when leaving the spot which your steps have sanctified, leave behind you only a_ues and cinders. The god of Bulgaria spreads his bear-fue over yon as a shield. Fear nothing, young Bulgar. Forward, ever forward! —Extract from the "Mercnre de France."