Oh, would God I lay a corpse; Would the black earth held me sleeping. Prayers and tears don’t bite upon him.— Peer, you’re lost, and ever will be! PEER. Darling, pretty little mother, You are right in every word;— Don’t be cross, be happy—— ÅSE. Silence! Could I, if I would, be happy, With a pig like you for son? Think how bitter I must find it, I, a poor defenceless widow, Ever to be put to shame! [_Weeping again._ How much have we now remaining From your grandsire’s days of glory? Where are now the sacks[25] of coin Left behind by Rasmus Gynt? Ah, your father lent them wings,— Lavished them abroad like sand, Buying land in every parish, Driving round in gilded chariots. Where is all the wealth he wasted At the famous winter-banquet, When each guest sent glass and bottle Shivering ’gainst the wall behind him? PEER. Where’s the snow of yester-year? ÅSE. Silence, boy, before your mother! See the farmhouse! Every second Window-pane is stopped with clouts. Hedges, fences, all are down, Beasts exposed to wind and weather, Fields and meadows lying fallow, Every month a new distraint—— PEER. Come now, stop this old-wife’s talk! Many a time has luck seemed drooping, And sprung up as high as ever! ÅSE. Salt strewn is the soil it grew from. Lord, but you’re a rare one, you,— Just as pert and jaunty still, Just as bold as when the Pastor, Newly come from Copenhagen, Bade you tell your Christian name, And declared that such a headpiece Many a Prince down there might envy; Till the cob your father gave him, With a sledge to boot, in thanks For his pleasant, friendly talk.— Ah, but things went bravely then! Provost,[26] Captain, all the rest, Dropped in daily, ate and drank, Swilling, till they well-nigh burst. But ’tis need that tests one’s neighbour. Lonely here it grew, and silent, From the day that “Gold-bag Jon”[27] Started with his pack, a pedlar. [_Dries her eyes with her apron._ Ah, you’re big and strong enough, You should be a staff and pillar For your mother’s frail old age,— You should keep the farm-work going, Guard the remnants of your gear;— [_Crying again._ Oh, God help me, small’s the profit You have been to me, you scamp! Lounging by the hearth at home, Grubbing in the charcoal embers; Or, round all the country, frightening Girls away from merry-makings— Shaming me in all directions, Fighting with the worst rapscallions——