Andersen's 'The dying Child'

'The dying Child' is an epoch-making text, because Andersen's poetic elevation of the thoughts and speech of a child, which bear the form of the poem, broke with all sorts of norms as to what good and correct literature should look like in the 1820s (the poem dates from 1826). So deep and complete a bowing of the knee to the nature of a child had not been attempted anywhere in the world - not even Goethe in his poem about Erlkönig from the end of the 18th century had attempted this.
(Jens Andersen, Andersen, vol. I, p. 154):

Bellman and Charon

Fredman’s Epistle No. 79

Charon his horn is sounding,

Storm winds commence their howling,

Hawsers, ropes, sails start bounding

and come loose apace;

Moon’s nightly round is ending

Stars gleam with dismal cowling,

To its great change is bending

Life’s allotted space;

Soon will my hour-glass have emptied,

Charon’s oars all have attempted,

           Purling they burrow

           Deep in each furrow,

           Through bright waves sliding,

           Death’s bark is gliding,

Jet-black the funeral ferry down the river strokes

           To dust and smoke://:

           And ghosts’ loud bays.

Landladies oh so dashing,

Brace me for this my journey,

When on my fathers’ ashes

I’ll be heaped tonight.

Red-faced and voice quite throttled

Innkeepers stand there sternly,

Chalk me up nigh a bottle

For my hat – that’s right.

Ma’am take the slate at the counter,

Rub out two pence for the flounder;

           Likewise please cut a

           Penny for butter;

           Further the eel-fish

           There in the green-dish;

Further the plump potato on which now I dine,

           It was most fine ://:

           And round and light.

While at my tankard sitting,

I my last will am writing;

This document most fitting,

Read, Ma’am, I implore;

Gone is this world’s dominion,

See how its taste’s more biting,

Heaven with stars its minions

Now above me soar.

I keep my tankard in motion –

Clang, what a brew, what a potion,

           Foam mounts and frizzles,

           Froth almost sizzles,

           Drops in full spate float

           Down on my greatcoat.

That hit the spot, Ma’am Maja, that was beer that sang.

           Clang, Ma’am, cling-clang! ://:

           Off Charon’s shore.

My head droops at all angles,

All of me’s forward nosing,

It seems my neck just dangles.

But, ye Gods, I wince

As tearful eyed I’m glaring

At all my rags imposing

Which once, no padding sparing,

Buttoned as if pinned;

Aren’t though my breeches quite charming,

These garments oh so disarming?

           Waistcoat’s distended

           All the rest mended

           Stockings in creases,

           Heels worn to pieces,

And that fine shirt, Ma’am Maja, was – please note my thrift –

           Beckman’s wife’s shift ://:

           Just two years since.

Now midships I stand quaking,

Heav’ns, how the rudder’s creaking,

Shadows all for the taking,

Lapping waves so slight;

Aeolus drowns all crying,

Charon’s shrill whistle’s shrieking,

Help! Hear dark shadows sighing

How their moans affright;

Thunder and northern lights’ flashes,

Lightning that through the sky dashes

           Arched o’er the river,

           See the Plough quiver,

           Stars no more quicken.

           Shores slowly thicken,

Till from the sombre shadow all last light departs;

           My torment starts. ://
           So, Ma’am, good night!

'Svarta Rudolf' - a great Erik Axel Karlfeldt favourite

Svarta Rudolf

Se svarta Rudolf han dansar,

han böjer sin nacke och ler.

Han tänker på stormande nätter

i Amsterdams glädjekvarter.

||: Han drömmer om flickornas kransar

           och svävande bruna ben

           på stranden av blåa slätter

           vid samoamånens sken. :||

Han böjer sin nacke och blundar

i flygande roslagsvals.

Så höll han i smäktande lundar

sin arm om chilenskans hals;

||: Så böjde han krullig hjässa

           en afton i negerbyn,

           mot trettonårig prinsessa

           med eldsken i ebenholtzhyn. :||

Så dansa de svajiga karlar

på Malagas vinstänkta redd.

Den vitröda tösen hon bävar,

bedårad, förlorad, förledd.

||: Hun ler i den väldiges nävar

           åt allt vad han tog och han gav,

           hon suckar och vinden svarar

           från Ålands jäsande hav. :||

Black-haired Rudolph

Look, black-haired Rudolph, he’s dancing,

he bends his head slightly and smiles.

He’s thinking of wild nights of pleasure

where Amsterdam’s red light beguiles.

||: He’s dreaming of wreathed girls romancing,

           their brown legs that sway to each tune,

           Samoa’s smooth beaches quite azure

           beneath the Pacific’s bright moon. :||

His eyes closed, he bends his head slightly,

the Roslagen waltz whirls him on.

As once in dark groves he held lightly

a Chilean girl’s neck like a swan;

||: As once his black curls he inclined to –

           in some shanty town late at night –

           a youthful princess he’d a mind to

           with ebony skin shot with light. :||

So dance all the swaying young fellows

on Malaga’s wine-spattered piers

The blushing pale lass slowly mellows,

enchanted, entranced and all ears.

||: She smiles as huge fists hold her tightly

           at all that he took and he gave,

           she sighs and the wind answers quietly

           from Åland’s sea’s turbulent waves. :||

To hear an old 78 recording, go to here

'Violen från Flen' - a great Olrog favourite

Violen från Flen

Det står en vacker flicka i en bokhandel i Flen,

och drömmer ibland böcker så allén.

Där finns till salu smått och gott,

mest papper och kuvert,

men ändå annonserar man såhär:

Köp en Hjalmar Gullberg eller Vilhelm Moberg,

men köp den av Violen från Flen.

All bildning och kultur, verkligt rara djur,

får ni av Violen från Flen.

Äventyr och sagor finns uti vårt lager


där sånggudinnan går på lätta ben.

Prosa och lyrik, kanske romantik,


får ni av Violen från Flen.

När ortens unga glopar går på jakt så verkar de'

municipalsamhälls-jeunesse-dorée.

Och frågar de Violen om hon vill gå med dem ut,

så rodnar hon och svarar så till slut:

Allt kan ni begära, av det litterära,

ja allting av Parnassens fenomen.

Men praktisk romantik, eller erotik,

finns ej hos Violen från Flen.

Tag i stället för er, av små bokprimörer,

ta' småvarmt från den Bonnierska buffén.

Bildning och kultur, verkligt rara djur,

får ni av Violen från Flen.

The Violet of Flen

A lovely girl stands lonely in a bookshop out in Flen,

and dreams among the books of her domain.

On sale are paper, envelopes,

and mostly bibs and bobs,

despite this though advertisements proclaim:

Buy a Hjalmar Gullberg or a Vilhelm Moberg,

but buy it from the Violet of Flen.

All your cultural feasts, truly snuggly beasts,

you’ll get from the Violet of Flen.

We stock stirring stories, tales of former glories


here the muse of song delights to reign.

Poetry and prose, romance too who knows,


you’ll get from the Violet of Flen.

When local whippersnappers go out hunting or foray

they seem to be the town’s jeunesse dorée.

And if they ask the Violet if she’d like to join the guys,

she blushes and she finally replies:

All you could desire, literature entire,

and that which to Parnassus might pertain.

Though all cooing doves, and erotic love’s

not stocked by the Violet of Flen.

Take though for nutrition, early small editions,

from Bonnier’s buffet do not abstain.

All your cultural feasts, truly snuggly beasts,

you’ll get from the Violet of Flen.

Listen to Sven-Bertil Taube sing it on Spotify!

A Vanitas poem by the Swedish poet Nils Ferlin

Fåfänglighet

Jag har klättrat på önskningens stege,

jag har klättrat så långt att jag vet

att den stegen är hög som en himmel

och djup som en evighet ...

Och mänskor ha gått på den stegen

i tusen och tusen år –

och ingen har visat dem vägen

var stegen står ...

Men alla som tvinga dess pinnar

de springa på glödande kol,

och aldrig i levande livet

de nå sitt mål ...

Jag har klättrat på önskningens stege,

jag har gått ett par fjät - så jag vet

att den stegen är hög som en himmel

och allt är fåfänglighet

Vanity

On the ladder of human desire

I have climbed up so far that I know

it’s as high as the heavens and higher

and deeper than deep below ...

And people have have busily climbed there

for thousands and thousands of years –

and no one has helped them to find where

it upward rears ...

But all who its rungs would endeavour

they leap as on hot glowing coals

and here in this life they will never

attain their goals.

On the ladder of human desire

I have climbed a few steps – so I know

it’s as high as the heavens and higher

and vanity’s all there’s to show.