To Sweden Poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson

Lift thou thine ancient yellow-blue!
Aloft the front must show it.
The German's slow to take the cue,
But seeing that he'll know it.

He'll know that greater danger's near
Than ink on Bismarck's trousers;
That it will cost him doubly dear,
Men, horses, bovine browsers;

That ten years' nonsense now is done,
The daily quarrel dirty
Will soon become a war with one
Who held his own for thirty;

The Northland's stubborn folk allied
Their forces are uniting,
With glorious memories to guide,
The Northern heavens lighting;

That great Gustavus once again
To battle glad is riding,
But now
against
the Southern men

With
Christian Fourth is siding,-

With Haakon Earl the times of old
Round Palnatoki gather;
Near Charles the Twelfth stands Tordenskjold,
Placid, and smiling rather,-

That we, who have so well known how
To fight against each other,
Shall not exactly scorn earn now,
When brother stands with brother.

But forward
thou
the way must lead
With stirring drum-beats' rattle,
Thy marching-step we all must heed,
Thou 'rt known on fields of battle.

That ancient Swedish melody,
Renowned in world-wide glory,
Not merely for the heart's deep plea
In Jenny's travel-story,-

But for the solemn earnestness
To Lützen's battle calling,
And for the daring strains no less,
That rang at Narwa's falling,-

The song thou sang'st the North t' inspire
With virtue and with power,

The three must with united choir
Lift up this very hour!


It now must bear aloft a hymn,
The call of God proclaiming;
Pictures of blood its lines shall limn,
Drawn bold in letters flaming,-

Its name shall be: 'The Free North's Hymn!'
Of all the hymns thou voicest,
Whose glory time shall never dim,
It shall be first and choicest.