Classic Poem

( A TROOP OF DALECARLIANS RETURN HOME FROM THEIR SUMMER'S LABOR )

March to Tuna Town, lads!
O'er heath and hillside brown, lads,
March to Mora, lying
Amid the mountains blue,
While pick and spade we carry,
We haste, and never tarry,
To where great woods are sighing,
And little sweethearts, too.

How fine it is, my brothers,
To journey with the others;
Our pockets, heavy-laden,
Clink time with merry cheer.
The clarinet is trilling,
The fiddler, not unwilling,
Bears gifts unto his maiden
Whose wedding-day is near.

You gloomy old curmudgeon,
Don't be in such a dudgeon!
Your beer will sour with keeping;
Pour out a flagon there!
Dame, let your sauce-pan sputter
With porridge and with butter;
Here 's Jonas from the reaping,
And here is Singer Peer!

Ye men o' the miners' region,
Come join our marching legion,
Ay, join in our procession
To Silja Lake to-day!
Come and behold the land there,
The churches on the strand there
Like lilies have their station
In shining white array.

Behold now field and pasture
Arrayed in golden vesture!
The brooks and streams are plashing
With festal autumn sound.
Though dark the clouds above now,
We hail the homes we love now.
For us will lights be flashing,
And royal mirth abound.