PRAYER TO BRAGI
The world-rocking roar of the thunder, the red lightning’s death-dealing flash,
The wind that rends mountains asunder, the tempest’s sharp, blood-bringing lash,
Beneficent silvery rivers that stream from the dream-laden moon,
And crimsoning fire that delivers bound life at the sun’s freeing noon;
These swell like a marvellous ocean, all throbbing and leaping and strong,
O Bragi, in thy magic potion of pain and of sweetness and song!
The life-blood of Kvasir was taken, sharp heart-seeking knives made him bleed,
But still shall his spirit awaken in singers who drink of thy mead.
The honey from forests of flowers, poured out as the milk from the kine,
It flows through the undying hours from lips that are wet with thy wine.
O Bragi, dear master of singing, song-thirsty I beg for thy dole!
To thy knees, a suppliant clinging, I pray for a draught from thy bowl.
IMITATION OF RICHEPIN’S
BALLADE OF THE BEGGARS’ KING
Hey, come to me, you slipshod race,
Picklocks and squealing bagpipe crew,
Come, strumpet, knave and monkey-face,
Come loafers, I’m the lad for you!
Come ragged cloak and tattered shoe,
Your wild, hot liberty I sing,
For I am of your nation, too,
The poet is the beggars’ king.
You playthings of the copper’s mace,
You toys of wind and rain and dew,
You whom the yelping watchdogs chase,
Whom blows and noisome ills pursue,
Whose paltry rags the wind strikes through
As through some rotten paper thing,
To whom nor want nor woe is new,
The poet is the beggars’ king.
You hoboes, whom the sun’s embrace
Has burned to darkly golden hue,
You trollops, full of love and grace,
Whom half a hundred lovers woo,
You little crawling babies who
Just wear your hides for costuming,
Old toothless men with noses blue,
The poet is the beggars’ king.
L’ENVOI
My subjects all and vassals true,
Come, give me royal welcoming,
May booze be plenty, bulls be few,
The poet is the beggars’ king.