En Vise fra Borgerkrigen
i Amerika
Mel: dit Beger skjemmer ingen

A Norwegian poem from the Civil War in America that I translated into English in prose form so as to get the meaning of each line translated. (Albert)

Den tid da jeg udvandre,
Drog over Bolgers salte Vand,
Jeg da blandt mange andre
Kom til et fremmed Land.
Indbyggerne sit Land bebor
I Fryd, i Fred, i Pragt, i Flor,
Thi intet Land det ligner
På denne vide Jor.

The time I emigrated
Went over billowed salty sea
I then among many others
Came to an unknown land.
The people there had settled there
In pride, in peace and glory.
To nothing could this land compare
On this wide world.

Her tenkte jeg at bygge,
Her tenkte jeg i Fred at bo.
Jeg folte mig så trygge,
At nyde Fred or Ro.
De sage: “Her er Friheds Land
Uden Konge af Adelstand,
Og aldrig var at frygte
Fientlig Ildebrand.”

Here I thought to build
here I thought in peace to live,
I felt so safe
To enjoy the peace and quiet.
They said that here was freedom’s land
Without a king of high class born
And never was to fear
The fire of enemy.

Den Tid vi da så have
Til Atten Hundred Sexti Een,
De politiske Love
Splidagtig blev til Meen,
Lovkyndig Mend, fra Landet om,
For Embed drog til Washington,
De kunde ei forliges
I nogen Punkt do kom.

That time we did so have
Until eighteen sixty-one
The political laws
Were split, and worthless made.
The lawyers from about the land
For jobs they went to Washington.
They could not there agree
In any point they came.

De Mend fra nordre Stater
Vil give sorte Slaver fri,
De sodren Democrater
De elsket Slaveri
Så stred de Dag og Uger hen
Tilsidst de sodren Mend drog hjem,
En Krigsher at udstede
At få sin Villie frem.

The men from Northern States
Would give black slaves their freedom.
The southern Democrats
They loved the slavery.
They argued days and days and weeks,
At last the southern men went home
An army to get ready
To get their way about it.

Den Krigsher da uddrager,
Af megtighed, i stort Antal,
I Nord holdt sig tilbage
At se hvad gjores skal.
Vi så Fiendens Ildebrand,
Forst modgik Sytti Tusind Mand,
For Stormen de mon falde,
Som Huse bygst på Sand.

That army then went out
Was powerful, in numbers great.
The North they still held back
To see what could be done.
We saw the enemy’s burning fire.
We went against with seventy thousand men
Against the storm they fell
Like houses built on sand.

Ja Halve Millioner
Soldater, da til Sodren gå
Med Rifler or Kanoner,
Så Jorden beve må
Og for Rebellion er forbi
Afrikas Stamme settes fri.
Med Bagnet Lov vi skrive
For Fiendens Slaveri.

Yes, by millions half
Soldiers then to South did go
With rifles and the cannons,
So the earth would shake and tremble
And before the rebellion is past
African race must be set free
With bayonet, law we write
For the enemies’ slavery.

På Papiret det morke,
Og Blekket er af Farve rodt
Vi gjore Love sterke
At modstå Fiendens Stod.
Her Jorden tidt bedekket er
Af Ungdoms Blod or Legemer
Som Kvinderne begrede
Den Ven de havde kjer.

On paper which is dark
And ink of color red
We will make laws so strong
To stand against enemies’ push.
The ground is often covered
Of young boys’s blood and corpses,
Over which the women weep
The friend they held so dear.

Om Tilfald skulde vere
At jeg i Kamp fik Livet endt,
Den Kvinde Tåre bere
Den har mit Bo fortjent.
Ved Testamente Skatte rod
Jeg skjenke vil den Ven så sod,
Sig Sorgedragt ifore,
Ved Tanken af min Dod

If it should ever happen
That I in battle my life would end,
The woman that a tear would shed
She has my estate earned
By testament,
I give my friend, so sweet,
That dress in mourning
By thinking of my death.

Den, som forst skrev den Vise,
En Norsk Soldat han er, og var.
Han lykkelig sig prise
Han ingen Kjerest har.
Og dette er hans Rigdoms Kår,
Om Ravnen ham til Fode får,
At ingen Sjel på Jorden
Vil felde moden Tår.

The one that first this poem wrote
A Norwegian soldier he is, and was
His luck he highly praises
That he no sweetheart has,
And this is his great riches,
If the raven him for food do get
That not a soul on earth
Will shed for him great tears.

Det er nu Sexti Fire
Og dertil Atten Hundrede,
Den tolvte August skrive,
Ved Byen Atlante.
Nu Minnesota Regiment
Af Nummer To, som er bekjendt,
Fremad! Fremad! til Seier,
Derfor er Visen endt.

It is now sixty-four
And thereto eighteen hundred
The twelfth of August, written
By the town of Atlanta
Now Minnesota regiment
Of number two, which is well known.
Forward! Forward! to Victory
Therefore the poem ends.

Bernt Olmanson.

trans. Albert Olmanson