Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 3).djvu/207



We cannot fitly condescend To smirch ourselves in human slime. Let no man, says the Parson, dare To be two things at the same time; And, with the best will, no one can Be an official and a man; Our part in all things is, to swear By our great exemplar—the Mayor.

Why just by him?

Do you recall The fire that wreck'd his house, and yet The deeds were rescued, one and all?

It was an evening

Wild and wet, And like ten toiling men toiled he; But indoors stood the Devil in glee Guffawing, and his wife shriek'd out: "O save your soul, sweet husband! See, Satan will have you!" Then a shout Rang backward through the surging vapours: "My soul may go to hell for me; Just lend a hand to save the papers!" Look, that's a Mayor—without, within! From top to toe, from core to skin; He'll win his way, I'm certain, yonder, Where his life's toil shall have its price.