The Canadian-American Review of Hungarian Studies - Vol. 4 ... - EPA

They all teased one another; like wild coltsThey romped around in spirited revolts.George Toldi, after having swilled his share,Threw his proud self into a soft armchair,And from the wide verandah watched with pleasureHow his gay troops made merry beyond measure;Then marking in a corner the young lad.His brother Nicholas, all alone and sad,The sordid instincts of his soul awokeAnd to his lumpish louts with spleen he spoke:"Hallo, boys! See that bustard sorrowing!He hides his mournful beak beneath his wing.Roosting is he, or dead? Use your best knackTo bang that plank behind his sulky back!"As when a hare is tossed among some hounds,The wanton soldiers' mischief knew no bounds.The boards behind his head banged loud with spearsWhile still his earlier sorrow perseveres.No mystery was this onset all unblest,The case was obvious and manifest;This drastic joke against himself was spedOften the missiles hardly missed his head.Though far from calm, Toldi endured their clangour;His soul still wrestled with his rising anger;Then mastered it, and rested in disdainThat these rude varlets sought to give him pain.For you must know, these rogues who caused him harmCould be swept off by his avenging arm,Like that of Samson that once killed aloneA thousand infidels with one jaw-bone.For long he kept his temper firm before them;It seemed his best revenge was to ignore them;He tried to hide his knowledge of their aim,And didn't move one ear for all their game.But when a spearpoint grazed his shoulder-blade,His rage flared up in fearful fusillade:Seizing the millstone-block on which he sat,He hurled it at his foemen, crude and fat.