Where are now the sacks[1] 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,
- ↑ Literally "bushels."
