PEER. [_Turning away from her._] Let me be. ÅSE. [_Following him._] Can you deny That you were the foremost brawler In the mighty battle royal Fought the other day at Lundë; When you raged like mongrels mad? Who was it but you that broke Blacksmith Aslak’s arm for him,— Or at any rate that wrenched one Of his fingers out of joint? PEER. Who has filled you with such prate? ÅSE. [_Hotly._] Cottar Kari heard the yells! PEER. [_Rubbing his elbow._] Maybe, but ’twas I that howled. ÅSE. You? PEER. Yes, mother,—_I_ got beaten. ÅSE. What d’you say? PEER. He’s limber, he is. ÅSE. Who? PEER. Why Aslak, to be sure. ÅSE. Shame—and shame; I spit upon you! Such a worthless sot as that, Such a brawler, such a sodden Dram-sponge to have beaten you! [_Weeping again._ Many a shame and slight I’ve suffered; But that this should come to pass Is the worst disgrace of all. What if he be ne’er so limber, Need you therefore be a weakling? PEER. Though I hammer or am hammered,— Still we must have lamentations. [_Laughing_ Cheer up, mother—— ÅSE. What? You’re lying Now again? PEER. Yes, just this once. Come now, wipe your tears away;— [_Clenching his left hand._ See,—with this same pair of tongs, Thus I held the smith bent double, While my sledge-hammer right fist—— ÅSE. Oh, you brawler! You will bring me With your doings to the grave! PEER. No, you’re worth a better fate; Better twenty thousand times! Little, ugly, dear old mother, You may safely trust my word,— All the parish shall exalt you; Only wait till I have done Something—something really grand. ÅSE. [_Contemptuously._] You! PEER. Who knows what may befall one? ÅSE. Could you but find so much sense, One day, as to do the darning Of your breeches for yourself! PEER. [_Hotly._]