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

169
And then there were few who’d not feel scared
With Terje Vigen by.
I saw him later, just once — he lay
With his catch alongside the quay;
His hair was white but he sang, as gay
And spry as a boy was he.
He bantered with lasses who happened abroad,
He joked with the lads, each one,
He waved his sou’wester and sprang aboard;
Then hoisting the jib he left the fjord
For home, the old eagle, in sun.
Now all that I’ve heard about Terje I’ll try
To tell you from first to last,
And if it should sometimes seem a bit dry
It’s true to what really passed;
It isn’t exactly a first-hand piece,
But still it’s from friends of his then —
From those who stood by at his last release
And closed up his eyes for the sleep of peace
When he died near on three-score and ten.
He proved quite a scamp in his younger days,
Left home soon to range abroad;
Had gone through a lot in all sorts of ways
As youngest seaman on board.
Later, jumped ship in Amsterdam,
But pined in the end for home,
And sailed on “The Union”, captain Pram;
But there no-one knew him, the straying lamb
Who’d left, a mere lad, to roam.
Now he’d grown tall, in a handsome style,
And he dressed with a certain pride.
But father and mother had died meanwhile,
In fact all his kin beside.
Then Terje moped for a day, maybe two, —
But soon shed his misery.
With land underfoot he found much to rue,
No, better to build, live the freedom he knew
On the surge of the mighty sea!
Then, a year later, young Terje wed, —
The die had been quickly cast.
He must have repented the deed, folk said,
That suddenly bound him fast.
So under a roof of his own he stayed
One winter, one long carouse —
Though gleaming window-panes still displayed
Neat little curtains and flowers arrayed