THE COLLECTED POEMS OF HENRIK IBSEN Translated by John ...

147
That at last you must have died,
Thue-buried, print-interred.
Such talk was irrational,
Kite-flown rumour, wildly flighted, —
We can see now, clearly sighted,
You’re awake and — national.
For such cunning holds and blows,
Nordic clinches, body-blasters
From the good old days, one knows
Only a real Norwegian masters.
Dale-bound, tied in torpor’s trusses,
You have skulked for many a year;
Now you’ve gone beserk, I fear,
Blasting off your blunderbusses!
And you’ve little ammunition
Left you for the wars that rage:
Powder in cheese-ripe condition,
Words that match liqueur for age.
“Dolt” and “thug” and such like cries
Through the raging racket rattle;
Ah, I thought the last supplies
Banged off in the Campbell battle.
Notwithstanding my dissent,
In the fjord The Shoal’s still showing;
Hence the Daily’s seas present
To our gaze the Marwhal blowing.
Ha, if only our young force
Boasted some such Birchleg power
Up front, where the arrows shower,
Victory would be ours of course!
That’s what we’re objecting to!
Makes one grieve, it’s far from cheering
When one sees a man like you
Join the Danes by volunteering.
May it profit you, I say,
Fighting in the foeman’s fetter!
Hope they settle to the letter
Down Norse-Copenhagen way!
Monies you expect for wages
Could stay on account for ages, —
Just because, before year’s dying,
Denmark’s colours will be flying! — —
I forgot, when last I wrote,
Any mention of Herr Comus,
Domicile refused by vote