Both a poet and a musician, Bellman wrote a multitude of poems and songs. Most of them are still considered to be among the finest lyrics in swedish literature. His works often focus on a group of individuals who more often than not carouse the night through in the taverns of Stockholm. Bellman lived from the year 1740 to the year 1795, and it must be noted that at this period, there existed at least one, and often more, pubs and taverns in every city block of Stockholm. Drinking was widespread, since no laws were enforced strictly enough to subdue the alcoholism. The poverty and unfavorable living conditions of the working classes, who had begun to grow in the capital since the Industrial Revolution, made a drunken stupor the only state in which the poor workers could find temporary respite. Diseases were commonplace, and epedemics were all too frequent. I am not trying to paint some nightmarish picture of a living hell, but the atmosphere was all but hope-inspiring. Bellman himself had seen quite a few of his brothers and sisters die at an early age, and all this, perhaps, was what made him turn so often to liquor as a motif for his poems.
The group of people he often returns to are made up of some very original characters. There's Mollberg, a corporal of the lifeguards, Ulla Winblad, a "nymph and priestess in Bacchi Temple", Movitz, the tavern's cellist, and Jergen Puckel, the hunchbacked apprentice. There is also the spirit of Fredman, formerly a rich watchmaker in Stockholm, who writes to his "brethren" and bids them to worship Bacchus and Freja, the nordic Venus, in all the city's taverns and brothels. Although I personally have read all too little of Bellman's poems, I feel that his own preface best illustrates his work. A small note upon the texts : Djurgarden is a part of Stockholm, where in Bellman's time resided many places of entertainment, some elegant, some not. And "skål" in the poem, is swedish for "cheers".
Bellman's preface
Reader
Here seest thou the Shadow of a Bacchic Hero, the faint wraith of an outblown taper. Who's that, you ask ? Well, it's Fredman the Watchmaker, he who in his lifetime was generally known as much for his clever way of dividing up the flight of time into Hours and Minutes, as for his alacrity in annihilating it in a little green Hourglass of Booze. While he yet dwelled among us in all his Thirsty and poverty-stricken wretchedness, he staggered even amid the vilest persecutions of an unkind fate into a wobbly bliss, out of the embrace of Bacchus into Freja's open Arms, and through the Beer-barrel the same way back again. The Brandy Glass was his most exquisite Pocket Watch, and the chronometer whereon he could most safely rely. For want of the blessings of Happiness, he daily found a superfluity in the houses of Bacchus, and his wet Sans-Souci in the entrancing Palaces of Djurgarden. But let us now, My Reader, behold him in the Elysian Djurgarden, by the Stygian Creek, whose billows no rowboats plough but Charon's old Ferry, heaped with corpses and bones. Here we may contemplate his starved and dried-up Wraith, where it languishes beneath a tyrannous sobriety. In this place he despises Happiness; but neither is the only Happiness he ever sought to be found here. Here are no Waldhorns heard, no crullers are baked, here's no Hogland wine in Tankards with Pimpinella, etc. Nor do any of those Chlorises who have arrived in his company have any more desire to dance. And, what is worst of all, inasmuch as Clockwork hath no uses in Eternity, that art wherein he was learned is but a useless burden to him.
Up on earth he plays so much the greater Role. Bacchus owes too much to this Hero, to allow his memory to be buried with his Ashes. Daily he holds him up as an example unto his Children, encouraging them with these words : Follow in Fredman's footsteps, my Beloved, and one day ye too will attain Fredman's glory, and your names, like his, be inscribed on the pillars of my Temple.
Fredman's song no. 10
Drink till after twelve or more,
Live it up with madmen !
Earth is but my chamber floor
And the sun my lantern.
Nothing else is worth a pin
If my head but giddy spin,
Giddy spin, giddy spin,
Giddy spin, giddy spin,
Until it's so drowsy
Nothing more can rouse me.
In my grandad's overcoat,
Torn and out at elbows,
Here I stand, on brandy dote,
'Mid the queerest fellows;
Out of pretty goblets bright
Tipple morning noon and night,
Noon and night, noon and night,
Noon and night, noon and night,
Till I'm just another
Boozy red-nosed brother.
If my sainted father stood
Suddenly before me
"Son", he'd hiccup, "skål ! That's good,
Brandy best doth warm me."
"Brother mine," I'd then reply,
Let us toast the morning sky,
Morning sky, morning sky,
Morning sky, morning sky,
Then to thy repose, sir,
Thou again mayst go, sir."
Were I but a man of wealth,
Gold my pocket lining,
Christmas day I'd dress myself
Like the king, when dining.
Then I'd purchase and I'd use
Coat and waistcoat and new shoes,
New shoes, new shoes,
New shoes, new shoes,
And of course I'd buy, sir,
A watch upon my thigh, sir !
But my throat can't stand such loss,
'Tis a very drought, sir.
What is gold, when got, but dross ?
Pull the cork right out, sir !
Let us steady on our legs,
Drain this bottle to the dregs,
To the dregs, to the dregs,
To the dregs, to the dregs,
Then let death attack us
In the blood of Bacchus.