Classic Poem

Out of the way, there!—in plumes arrayed the provost flashes,
Swinging his gold axe, he makes a road to pass.
( Tamborine —Ching, chingty, ching, ching!) The fifer proud with small moustaches,
Plump-cheeked and blooming, takes out his fife of brass.
 Drum starts a-rumbling;
Mollberg leads the mourners' band,
 Shouting and mumbling,
 Then calls out, “Stand!”

See yonder fool there, that lunatic with arms a-swinging!
He twirls a drum-stick and thumps it on a hide.
(Ching, chingty, ching, ching!) Two cymbals here another 's dinging,
One toots a French horn with cheeks inflated wide.
 One goes and hammers
With a pan-hoop on a bar,
 His frightful clamors
 Resound afar.

Mollberg, your servant!—But see how bow-legged he is walking,
Piously duck-like and smit with tearful gloom!
(Ching, chingty, ching, ching!) And eagerly behind him stalking,
Lejon and Lustig and Lax and Dunderbom.
 Tucks up his coat then,
Glances at his belt so fine,
 Clears out his throat then:
 “Stand! Straighten line!”

Nod back to Mollberg, my lady, I would be advising.
See! he salutes you and grins with jesting air.
(Ching, chingty, ching, ching!) In time upon his heels he 's rising:
“One, two! and one, two!—keep time—together there!”
 My what a bearing,
New white boots and splendid rig!
 Crape band he 's wearing
 And bob-tail wig.

See Dalberg's Kajsa, she 's standing at the window crying,
Timid and squint-eyed, in skirt of sable clad!
(Ching, chingty, ching, ching!) A harp is from the alley sighing,
While plays the fiddle and laughs a soldier lad.
 Veiled, with apparel
Like a nun, the widow stands,
 Leans on a barrel
 With book in hands.

Moves the procession. “Why, who is dead here in the alley?”
“Corporal Boman, the dropsy laid him low.”
(Ching, chingty, ching, ching!) See Wingmark mid the friends that rally,
Wig, black rosette, and a handkerchief of snow!
 There in the lead he
Goes with Bergström, then not least
 Comes tapster Ede,
 And next the priest!

There 's organ-blower and tower-man amid the tangle,
Mine host from Sodom, my landlord from The Hole.
(Ching, chingty, ching, ching!) Play up there, hit the shrill triangle!
Thump on the sheep-skin the drummer gives a roll.
 Bleared sexton shares too
Place amid the mourners' band,
 Keeps time and bears too
 His spade in hand!

Corporal Boman has cast his sword and sheath away now.
“Ay, he is dead, sure.” “Is dead—unhappy fate!”
(Ching, chingty, ching, ching!) 'T was end of March, I mind the day now,
When last he wet his moustaches at Brown Gate.”
 Safe here is no man—
For what is our life? A breath.
 Thine ashes, Boman,
 We hail in death.

Hey! What the devil! Get back in line, you 're all astray there!
Right-about! Shoulder arms! Steady, Number Two!
(Ching, chingty, ching, ching!) Present arms! Let the music play there!
In air take aim! Fire!—Ground arms, you donkey, you!
 In Bacchus' region
Boman's praise shall echo loud—
 Thanks, gallant legion,
 We 've done him proud!