Lambs and heifers roam there,
Lads and lasses come there.
Loud they hollo

As they follow,

Herding all the flocks that wallow.

Larks in the sky

Wing the cool air,
Roosters near by

Flap wings and blare;

All of Nature turns to duty,

Or as it awakes

Glow and glory takes. . . .

And to treasure all the beauty

Movitz now gets up,

Grabs his color-cup,

Sets his canvas on his knee.

Ha! 't is Madame Bergström-see!—

What a bonnet! Glory be!

With a bosom nosegay,

Pug on arm, she goes gay.

Ear-rings jolly,

Parasol, i'

Faith-Poor Movitz and his folly!

Sure I'll die with laughing at
Her fop son with shepherd hat,

Fine as anybody;

Beauty-patch, the noddy!

Much to brag on!

See the sag on

Her big double chin, the dragon!
Bosom tight-laced

Juts from her frame-
My what a chaste

Inn-keeper's dame

On your canvas you've inflicted!

Only will you say

Why she sits, I pray,

With a bird on wrist depicted?

"Ay, the reason's this,

Bergström's wife it is;

He would take the truth amiss."

A NOTA BENE

WHEN I have a flask well laden—

Nota bene, with good wine,

And thereto a pretty maiden—

Nota bene, who is mine,-
Joy have I in fullest dower-
Nota bene, for an hour.

Gay the time that we inherit

Nota bene, not all good:

Blows are oft rewards of merit,

Enemies desire our blood.

Many think in bliss to dwell-
Nota bene, bagatelle!

Go your way, life, never falter!
Stop, though-nota bene, there:
Age must never seek to alter
To a witch my sweetheart fair.
Wine and love exalt me high-
Nota bene, till I die.

FROM "FREDMAN'S SONGS," NUMBER 56

OF HAGA

BUTTERFLIES to Haga faring,

When the frosts and fogs are spent,
Find the woods their home preparing,
Flower-enwrought their pleasure-tent.
Insects from their winter trances
Newly wakened by the sun

O'er the marsh hold festal dances
And along the dock-leaves run.

Haga, on thy bosom dozes
Many a plot of verdure brave,
And the snowy swan reposes
Proudly on thy rippling wave.
In the woods a distant clamor
Comes reëchoed faint and fine:

From the quarry sounds the hammer,
Axes ring mid birch and pine.

See the little naiads flashing;
Golden horns they lift in air!
Cool cascades are blithely dashing
O'er the heights of Solna fair.

Statues greet the eyes that gaze there
Down the arching forest aisles;

Wheels go by, a dust they raise there-
Kindly then the peasant smiles.

Ah, what joy beyond repeating
Through that lovely park to rove,
To receive the fair one's greeting
While a monarch's eyes approve!
Each of his most gracious glances
Draws the tear of gratitude-
Ay, that royal look entrances

E'en the surly and the rude.

FROM "FREDMAN'S SONGS," NUMBER 64

TO ULLA AT A WINDOW IN FISHER-
TOWN, NOON OF A SUMMER DAY
ULLA, mine Ulla, to thee may I proffer
Reddest of strawberries, milk, and wine,
Or a bright carp from the fen shall I offer,
Or but a bowl from the fountain so fine?

Truly the flood-gates of heaven are broken

Rich is the scent of flower and tree

Drizzling, the clouds now the sun but foretoken,
Thou may'st see.

Chorus

Isn't it delightful, little Fishertown?

Delightful! Be it spoken."

Here the rows of tree-trunks stretching proudly down

In brand-new gown;

There the quiet reaches

Of the inlet flow;

And off yonder mid the ditches
Ploughed land, lo!

Isn't it delightful-all these meadows, though?

'Delightful, so
Delightful, oh!"

Hail, sweet, who there at the window dost hover!
Hark, how the bells from the city sound!
See how with dust-clouds the carriages cover
All the green hue of the country around!
I in my saddle drowsing survey thee.
Hand from the window, cousin mine,
First a dry rusk and a can of, I pray thee,
Hogland wine.

Isn't it delightful, etc.