Den gamle Mor paa Klinten staar
Den gamle Mor paa Klinten staar
Saa graat som Sand er hendes Haar!
Hun drikker Solens Uld saa smaat
Og skutter sig, det gør saa godt.
Men som hun ret paa Havet ser,
Straks hendes gustne Ansigt ler.
Thi ude, hist paa Bølgens Hjem
En prægtig Sejler glider frem
Men uden Ror og uden Mast;
Den borer sig i Sandet fast,
Det Dødningsskibet er man ser,
Thi se –nu er det ikke mer.
Da knæler fromt den gamle Mor,
Hun læser højt et Fadervor,
Og siger: “Gud! Til os du se!
Lad det paa vores Kyst dog skee!
De drukne vist, den hele Flok,
Men vi skal leve, veed Du nok!“
Up on the dune the old crone stands,
Up on the dune the old crone stands,
Her strands of hair are grey as sand!
She drinks in sun’s wool-threads a bit
And snuggles down, quite pleased with it.
But looking at the sea a while
Her pallid face now starts to smile.
For out there on the waves so blue
A splendid sailship she can view,
But with no rudder and no mast
It hits the sand and is held fast;
The Ship of Death is what one sees,
For look – from view it simply flees.
Down on her knees falls the old crone,
The Lord’s Prayer she aloud intones
And says: ‘Lord God, look to us, do!
Upon this coast let this come true!
They’re sure to drown, all those on board,
But we shall live, you know this, Lord!’
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