ÅSE
Salt-strewn is the soil it grew from.
Lord, but you’re a rare one, you,—
just as pert and jaunty still,
just as bold as when the pastor,
newly come from Copenhagen,
bade you tell your Christian name,
and declared that such a headpiece
many a prince down there might envy;
till the cob your father gave him,
with a sledge to boot, in thanks
for his pleasant, friendly talk.—
Ah, but things went bravely then!
Provost, captain, all the rest,
dropped in daily, ate and drank,
swilling, till they well-nigh burst.
But ’tis need that tests one’s neighbour.
Still it grew and empty here
from the day that “Gold-bag Jon”
started with his pack, a pedlar.
[Dries her eyes with her apron.]
Ah, you’re big and strong enough,
you should be a staff and pillar
for your mother’s frail old age,—
you should keep the farm-work going,
guard the remnants of your gear;—
[Crying again.]
oh, God help me, small’s the profit
you have been to me, you scamp!
Lounging by the hearth at home,
grubbing in the charcoal embers;
or, round all the country, frightening
girls away from merry-makings —
shaming me in all directions,
fighting with the worst rapscallions —