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Jeppe Aakjaer

(1866-1930)

Hedelandet


Du sære Land,
du mørke Land,
med Faaredrift og Studespand,
med ilde Avl
i Sandjordstavl,
med Stormes Gys om Grund og Gavl!

Dit unge Træ
fik kroget Knæ
i Vestenvind og Østenlæ;
din Byg frøs ud
i Nordenslud,
til skurvet Jord for skarp en Lud.

Din Bedeflok
har Tæger nok,
men rag og strid er Uldens Lok;
dog Faders Sok
og Søsters Klok
ved den fik Traad paa Moders Rok.

Et magert Land,
et fattigt Land,
og jævnt — i mer end én Forstand;
skønt nok af Sten
langs Agerrén,
du har af Klipper ikke én.

Din Arv er Sand,
dit Haab er: Vand!
Skønt ogsaa her sies Mælk af Spand;
blev Solen hed
og Kosten led,
den bragte tit en Skorpe ned.

Din Lyng var høj,
din Ahl var drøj
og Rydningsværket ingen Spøg,
men Ilden sved,
og Spaden bed;
om Resten ved hvert Barn Besked.

— Den jydske Mand,
Som her tog Land
med langt til Gud og langt til Vand,
hvor holdt han ud
i Ugers Slud,
naar al hans Trøst var Ko og Stud?

Saa spurgtes tit;
han grunded lidt
og svared saa: 'Hvem vælger frit!
Jeg fødtes her
i Hytten der
bag Kaalgaarddigets Poppeltræ'r.

Der leved Mor,
til jeg blev stor,
saa fik jeg Hyttens Gjæld og Jord;
et brydsomt Værk!
men jeg var stærk,
og jeg tog Skæbnen i dens Kværk.

Og Hytten her
den er mig kjær,
naar Sperglen gror og Rugen drær;
dens Karm er vind;
mens Solens Skin
naar selv ad skjæve Ruder ind.'

— Med slige Ord
din jydske Bror
vil møde dig paa stormslaaet Jord,
hvor Hytter smaa
med Lyng for Straa
i Dag slaar Kreds om Heden graa.

'Et øde Land!'
Et herligt Land
med Lokesæd og Hedebrand;
i Byger døbt,
i Storme svøbt,
i egne store Former støbt.

Submitted: Friday, June 29, 2012
Edited: Friday, June 29, 2012

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