From the collection of poems The Colonel's Songs (1915)
Away, yearning weakness from sooty breasts,
bay, trouble out of the snowy nest!
We have fire, we have meat, we have brandy for comfort,
here is the weekend, deep in the peace of the woods!
Sing, Björnbergs-Jon from your fullest throat
about love and roses and spring!
Tune the fiddle, Brogren, and play a waltz
for ghostly blue, moonlit thickets!
Under the stars the night haze flies
like a rush over the roof,
and the cracking ice of Lammelom roars,
where it groans from open watch.
It's mile after mile of barns and houses
where the frost goes sullen at the gate,
here is funny in the yellow light of the stockelden,
trembling in the night wind.
You are fair, Brogren, in fire red,
where you rub your black violin,
for food and for liquor you forgot all need,
and your forehead is bright as the sun.
And Jon, where you sit at the pot of yours,
a baron in your Tnollskins outfit,
see though the years have tanned your tough hide,
in your soot you are young as a god!
And Vargfors-Fredrik, you laughing man,
...who wishes all the wretches well...
Come, sing of the sins of your youth, if you can,
and a toast to your boyish soul!
And when the morning stars fade and die
and when the vapors congeal into ice,
and when the dew trembles on marsh and lake
we sleep on fragrant rice.
Then we all sleep on spruce heavy
and dream of pale tender
and snore and turn manly and calm,
while the fire fades and dies.
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