Edvard Storm (1749-94): 'Heimreise fraa Sæteren'

As mentioned, certain parts of Norway spoke a language far removed from Danish. Here is one such poem, in the original as well this time - an unpractised Dane would have trouble deciphering this one!

Heimreise fraa Sæteren

Os ha gjort qva gjæras skulle,

       ysta ost aa kinna Smør,
Naa staar at aa kløvja Øikjom,

       sættja Laas for Sæterdør.
Korkje finds dæ meire Føe

       her for Heie hel’ for Krist,
Gla æ os, os slep aat Bygden,

       meire gla æ Kue vist.

Farvæl Qve, som ofte gjore

       bloutast Blomsterseng ’pum mæg,
Nær æg trøt ve Høgsdags Leite

       jøp aa sløngde mæg paa dæg.
Farvæl Sæl! mi kjære Stugu,

       som saa mangt mit Arbei saag!
Montru du aa mærkte naagaa,

       nær Stakællen sjaa mæg laag?

Farvæl maark, som Fænan gnaagaa,

       der æg Gjete mangein Gaang;
Farvæl skoog, som ofte joma

       taa min lur aa stut aa Saang!
Farvæl Hulder, som der budde!

       fløt naa du ti sæle ind;
Vinters Ti æ ilt aa ligje

       ute baa for Vær aa Vind.

Kom naa alt ti Sætre finnes,

       kom aa følg aat Bygden ne!
Heile Jore æ naa røjugt,

       qvart eit Straa høir Fænan te;
Skond døk’; Folkje venta heime,

       Bufærslefsa vil døm haa;
Hær æ inkje meire gjæra;

       Folk aa Fæna, læt os gaa! 

Home journey from the high pasture

We have done all that was needed,

       churned the butter, made the cheese,

Now we’ve just to load the horses,

       lock the hut door, take the keys.

Nor for pagan or for Christian

       is there any food left o’er,

We are glad we’re homeward wending,

       gladdest are the cows for sure.

Farewell pasture, that so often

       was my flowery feather bed,

When at midday tired from labour

       down on you I flung my head.

Farewell hut! my own dear cabin

       that oft at my work could stare!

Did you notice owt, I wonder,

       when my young man saw me there?

Farewell fields cropped close by cattle,

       where my frequent watch was long;

Farewell woods where echoes rattled

       from my calling horn and song!
Farewell Huldra, who did dwell here!

       in my hut you can move in;
Winter’s not for lying outdoors

       in all weathers and cold wind.

Come now all in these high pastures

       to the village let’s be gone!

Now the fields are neat and tidy,

       every straw’s the cattle’s own;

Hurry – folk are waiting down there,

       Harvest home awaits below;

Nothing more to do up here now;

       Folk and cattle, off we go!