Hans Christian Andersen: 'Gid jeg var riig!'

Gid jeg var riig

 

»Gid jeg var riig!« det bad jeg mangen Gang,

Da jeg endnu var knap en Alen lang.

Gid jeg var riig! saa blev jeg Officeer,

Fik mig en Sabel, Uniform og Fjer.

Den Tid dog kom, at jeg blev Officeer,

Men ingensinde var jeg riig, desværre!

Mig hjalp vor Herre!

 

Livsglad og ung, jeg sad en Aftenstund,

En syvaars Pige kyssede min Mund,

Thi jeg var riig paa Sagn og Eventyr,

I Penge derimod en fattig Fyr,

Men Barnet brød sig kun om Eventyr,

Da var jeg riig, men ei paa Guld desværre,

Det veed vor Herre!

 

»Gid jeg var riig!« er end min Bøn til Gud,

Nu er den syvaars Pige voxet ud,

Hun er saa smuk, saa klog, saa eiegod.

Hvis hun mit Hjertes Eventyr forstod,

Hvis hun, som før – jeg mener, var mig god,

Dog jeg er fattig, derfor taus desværre,

Saa vil vor Herre!

 

Gid jeg var riig paa Trøst og Rolighed,

Da kom min Sorg ei paa Papiret ned!

Du, som jeg elsker, hvis Du mig forstaaer,

Læs dette, som et Digt fra Ungdoms Aar!

Det er dog bedst, hvis Du det ei forstaaer,

Jeg fattig er, min Fremtid mørk desværre,

Dig signe vil vor Herre!

(Findes i eventyret 'Lykkens Kalosker')

 

 

Were I but rich

 

 ‘Were I but rich!’ I often used to call,

When I was scarcely two foot tall.

Were I but rich! an officer I’d be,

With sword and uniform and plume for me!

Was later such a one for all to see,

But riches did evade me,

Though God did aid me!

 

One evening as I sat there young and gay,

A girl of seven kissed me straight away,

For rich I was in legends and in tales,

Though money I did seek to no avail,

The child though only thought of tales,

So I was rich, though not in gold,

God knows of old.

 

‘Were I but rich!’ is still to God my prayer,

The girl of seven’s grown, is tall and fair,

She is so lovely, so kind-hearted, wise.

If she my heart’s tale did surmise,

If she – as once before – for me had eyes!

But I am poor and so my lips are still,

It is God’s will!

 

Were I but rich in solace, mind and friend,

On paper I’d my sorrows not have penned!

You, whom I love, if me you understand,

This poem take as one that youth’s flame fanned,

Though it is better that you do not understand

That I am poor, my future dark, alas.

May God you bless! 

(Found in the tale 'The Galoshes of Fortune')