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king beside the grave].
- Now, when the soul has gone to meet its doom,
- and here the dust lies, like an empty pod,-
- now, my dear friends, we'll speak a word or two
- about this dead man's pilgrimage on earth.
- He was not wealthy, neither was he wise,
- his voice was weak, his bearing was unmanly,
- he spoke his mind abashed and faltering,
- he scarce was master at his own fireside;
- he sidled into church, as though appealing
- for leave, like other men, to take his place.
- It was from Gudbrandsdale, you know, he came.
- When here he settled he was but a lad;-
- and you remember how, to the very last,
- he kept his right hand hidden in his pocket.
- That right hand in the pocket was the feature
- that chiefly stamped his image on the mind,-
- and therewithal his writhing, his abashed
- shrinking from notice wheresoe'er he went.
- But, though he still pursued a path aloof,
- and ever seemed a stranger in our midst,
- you all know what he strove so hard to hide,-
- the hand he muffled had four fingers only.-
- I well remember, many years ago,
- one morning; there were sessions held at Lunde.
- 'Twas war-time, and the talk in every mouth
- turned on the country's sufferings and its fate.
- I stood there watching. At the table sat
- the Captain, 'twixt the bailiff and the sergeants;
- lad after lad was measured up and down,
- passed, and enrolled, and taken for a soldier.
- The room was full, and from the green outside,
- where thronged the young folks, loud the laughter rang.