Karl Mikael Bellman, 1740-1795

TO OLD MOVITZ, ILL WITH
CONSUMPTION

AN ELEGY

EMPTY your glass!-Behold where Death is waiting,
Sharp'ning his sword while standing at your door!
Be not afraid; he holds ajar the grating,
Then shuts the tomb and leaves it as before.
Movitz, consumption may spare you a year, man, . . .
Be of good cheer, man,

Tune up the chords and sing of youth once more!

Thin is your cheek, and yellow-pale its hue is,
Sunken your chest, your shoulders bent-too bad!
Let's see your hand each vein all swelled and blue is,
Flabby and moist, as if a bath you'd had:

Limp and perspiring your hand is, old fellow, . .
Come, strike your 'cello,

Pour out the bottle, sing and drink, be glad!

You're dying fast-so deep your cough is sounding: Hollow it rings; all 's emptiness within.

White is your tongue, your frightened heart is pounding, Soft as a sponge are muscles, thews, and skin.

Breathe Lord! the fumes that come out of

your

throt

tle...

Hand me the bottle!

Sing of god Bacchus! Here's your health! Begin!

Out of this flask your death by drops is flowing
All unobserved, as laugh and song go by.
Trust me, a troop of maggots fiercely glowing
Pours from yon glass that now you tilt on high.
You are consumed. Into tears you are turning,
Entrails are burning.

Can you still pledge me one more health? "Ay, ay!"

Well, then, your health! For Bacchus bids farewell now,
From Venus' throne receive your last adieu.
Fondly for her the tide of blood may swell now;
Slight though it be, it warms your body through.
Sing, read, forget, think, or tearfully ponder, . .
What, are you fonder

Still of your liquor? Die? No. Here's to you!

FROM "FREDMAN'S EPISTLES," NUMBER 30

CONCERNING MOLLBERG'S PARADE TO CORPORAL BOMAN'S GRAVE

Our of the way, there!-in plumes arrayed the provost flashes,

Swinging his gold axe, he makes a road to pass. (Tamborine-Ching, chingty, ching, ching!) The fifer proud with small moustaches,

Plump-cheeked and blooming, takes out his fife of brass.

Drum starts ȧ-rumbling;

Mollberg leads the mourners' band,

Shouting and mumbling,

Then calls out, “Stand!"

See yonder fool there, that lunatic with arms a-swinging! He twirls a drum-stick and thumps it on a hide.

(Ching, chingty, ching, ching!) Two cymbals here another's dinging,

One toots a French horn with cheeks inflated wide.
One goes and hammers

With a pan-hoop on a bar,
His frightful clamors

Resound afar.

Mollberg, your servant! But see how bow-legged he is walking,

Piously duck-like and smit with tearful gloom!

(Ching, chingty, ching, ching!) And eagerly behind him stalking,

Lejon and Lustig and Lax and Dunderbom.

Tucks up his coat then,

Glances at his belt so fine,

Clears out his throat then:

"Stand! Straighten line!"

Nod back to Mollberg, my lady, I would be advising.

See! he salutes you and grins with jesting air. (Ching, chingty, ching, ching!) In time upon his heels he's rising:

"One, two! and one, two!-keep time-together there!" My what a bearing,

New white boots and splendid rig!

Crape band he's wearing

And bob-tail wig.

See Dalberg's Kajsa, she's standing at the window crying, Timid and squint-eyed, in skirt of sable clad!

(Ching, chingty, ching, ching!) A harp is from the alley sighing,

While plays the fiddle and laughs a soldier lad.

Veiled, with apparel

Like a nun, the widow stands,

Leans on a barrel

With book in hands.

Moves the procession. "Why, who is dead here in the alley?"

"Corporal Boman, the dropsy laid him low."

(Ching, chingty, ching, ching!) See Wingmark mid the friends that rally,

Wig, black rosette, and a handkerchief of snow!

There in the lead he

Goes with Bergström, then not least

Comes tapster Ede,

And next the priest!

There's organ-blower and tower-man amid the tangle, Mine host from Sodom, my landlord from The Hole.