"Trik-a-trik, trik."
"I don't care," replied Captain W——, who knew the Danish language slightly; "it means nothing. My friends here have never heard the air, and that is the reason I sing it."
The Holsteiner still resisted. What could the matter be? The farmer must be, I thought, a married man, and the song an immoral one. The Captain made a second attempt with another song, and the Holsteiner resisted a second time. What could the matter now be? Why, that the farmer was a loyal subject, and a strenuous supporter of monarchy, and that Captain W—— had pitched, at last, upon a revolutionary song, which had been prohibited.
"It is so absurdly radical," said the American Minister, "that it carries with it its own antidote. I am sure there can arise no harm from Captain W—— singing it to our English friends, who are monarchy men sufficiently staunch to disallow any defection from royalty."
"Yes," replied the Baron de B——; "it is not for ourselves my friend from Holstein feels alarmed; but for those who attend upon us, and who, knowing us, may disseminate reports prejudicial to our position. God knows, my Sovereign has no truer subject than myself."
"Perhaps it is better," admitted the American Minister, "that the song should not be sung, W——. King Christian possesses no heart more loyal than my noble friend's," and he took the hand of the Baron de B——, who sat close to him, and shook it.
"A stone," exclaimed Captain W——, "thrown into a brook dams it not, but swells the current only to make it run swifter. What will you have?
"Min skaal og din skaal,
Alla vackra flickors skaal;"
and chanting these two lines of a Swedish drinking-song, he threw himself back in his chair, and emptied his overflowing glass. The party now began to get extremely merry; and from claret we turned to port, and, by imperceptible degrees, descended to punch. The smoke of our cigars soon accumulated in a dense mass, and, ascending to the ceiling of the room, hung like a canopy of clouds over our heads; and Satan would have envied the hot atmosphere which we now breathed and caroused in. We were all pretty well elated; and as the wine warmed Captain W——'s heart and feelings, he sang the sweetest Swedish song I shall ever hear again. The melodious air, the sweet silvery reiteration of the words, the language with its soft idioms, and the poetical beauty and liveliness of the song itself, were a combination of harmony I could never have anticipated. It would be useless endeavouring to embody "the viewless spirit" of those lovely sounds; but as the words were then translated to me, so I write them here:—
"The happy hours,
Amid the flowers,
Familiar to the Spring's warm breast;
When memory burneth,
And the soul returneth,
Day dreaming, to its own unrest.
I know of looks, to me more sweet and clear,
Than Light's glad beam, than heaven's own blue,
The Spring's soft breath, the flower's bright hue;
None so true,
As his I cherish here,
Whose image is so dear.
Will he love, and love me duly?
Fairy flowers, tell me truly.
What shall be my lot hereafter?
Shall it end in sighs, or laughter?
Pull them lightly!
Count them rightly!
Yes! No! Yes! No! Yes! No! Yes!
Counted rightly."