Tho' Sweden's general voice consents to own
Me the true master of her triple throne,
Tho' her disputed crown adorns my brow,
And tributary millions round me bow;
One bold, one stubborn province, yet defies
My brandish'd arm, and to my threats replies;
In face of all the realm denies my right,
And challenges three kingdoms to the fight.
On Dalecarlia's wide uncultured ground,
With rugged hills, and mineral riches crown'd,
A race, endued with native freedom, dwell;
A race, that stood, when total Sweden fell.
Their strong and unremitting bands explore
In earth's dark caverns her metallic store,
And, from laborious days extracting health,
Rest satisfied, and ask no other wealth:
Rough and unyielding, like their native soil,
The hardy sons of Nature and of Toil;
Resistless vigour, resolute and warm,
Strings every nerve, and braces every arm.
Foremost to vindicate the righteous cause,
And from th' oppressor guard their injur'd laws,
Thro' many a rolling century these have shone
Th' unfailing champions of the Swedish throne,
And now with all my forces singly cope,
Sweden's last bulwark, and her choicest hope.
No trivial loss their courage will alarm,
No threatening martial show their minds disarm,
And bribes, those glittering, oft successful darts,
Will find no entrance to their guarded hearts.