| |
| ACROSS the frozen marshes | |
| The winds of autumn blow, | |
| And the fen-lands of the Wetter | |
| Are white with early snow. | |
| |
| But where the low, gray headlands | 5 |
| Look o’er the Baltic brine, | |
| A bark is sailing in the track | |
| Of England’s battle-line. | |
| |
| No wares hath she to barter | |
| For Bothnia’s fish and grain; | 10 |
| She saileth not for pleasure, | |
| She saileth not for gain. | |
| |
| But still by isle or mainland | |
| She drops her anchor down, | |
| Where’er the British cannon | 15 |
| Rained fire on tower and town. | |
| |
| Outspake the ancient Amtman, | |
| At the gate of Helsingfors: | |
| “Why comes this ship a-spying | |
| In the track of England’s wars?” | 20 |
| |
| “God bless her,” said the coast-guard, | |
| “God bless the ship, I say, | |
| The holy angels trim the sails | |
| That speed her on her way! | |
| |
| “Where’er she drops her anchor, | 25 |
| The peasant’s heart is glad; | |
| Where’er she spreads her parting sail, | |
| The peasant’s heart is sad. | |
| |
| “Each wasted town and hamlet | |
| She visits to restore; | 30 |
| To roof the shattered cabin, | |
| And feed the starving poor. | |
| |
| “The sunken boats of fishers, | |
| The foraged beeves and grain, | |
| The spoil of flake and storehouse, | 35 |
| The good ship brings again. | |
| |
| “And so to Finland’s sorrow | |
| The sweet amend is made, | |
| As if the healing hand of Christ | |
| Upon her wounds were laid!” | 40 |
| |
| Then said the gray old Amtman: | |
| “The will of God be done! | |
| The battle lost by England’s hate | |
| By England’s love is won! | |
| |
| “We braved the iron tempest | 45 |
| That thundered on our shore; | |
| But when did kindness fail to find | |
| The key to Finland’s door? | |
| |
| “No more from Aland’s ramparts | |
| Shall warning signal come, | 50 |
| Nor startled Sweaborg hear again | |
| The roll of midnight drum. | |
| |
| “Beside our fierce Black Eagle | |
| The Dove of Peace shall rest; | |
| And in the mouths of cannon | 55 |
| The sea-bird make her nest. | |
| |
| “For Finland, looking seaward, | |
| No coming foe shall scan; | |
| And the holy bells of Abo | |
| Shall ring ‘Good-will to man!’ | 60 |
| |
| “Then row thy boat, O fisher! | |
| In peace on lake and bay; | |
| And thou, young maiden, dance again | |
| Around the poles of May! | |
| |
| “Sit down, old men, together, | 65 |
| Old wives, in quiet spin; | |
| Henceforth the Anglo-Saxon | |
| Is the brother of the Finn!” | |
| |
