THE NORSE KING’S BRIDAL
By the Same Author
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LONDON :: ANDREW MELROSE
3 YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C.
THE NORSE KING’S
BRIDAL
TRANSLATIONS FROM THE DANISH AND
OLD NORSE, WITH ORIGINAL BALLADS
BY
E. M. SMITH-DAMPIER
LONDON :: ANDREW MELROSE
3 YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C.
1912
PRINTED BY
HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD.,
LONDON AND AYLESBUBY.
TO E. D.
AND
THE OLD ONE
AUTHOR’S PREFACE
In these translations from the Danish I have adhered strictly to the metres of the original; this, however, is not the case with those from the Old Norse. The original ballads are not versifications of Northern legends, but, like those in my previous volume, so far as matter goes, pure inventions of my own.
The “Drowning of John Remorsson” is, according to Professor Gründtvig, in treatment, though not in subject, a Danish parallel to the Scottish “Sir Patrick Spens.” “Agnes and the Merman” seems to me interesting, as having possibly suggested to Matthew Arnold his “Forsaken Merman.”
With regard to “The Awakening of Angantheow” and “The Lay of Thrym,” I have little but apologies to offer. No one can be more sensible than myself of their short-comings. My excuse is, that I could learn of no other English metrical versions—and we all know who rush in where angels fear to tread! If my inadequacies exasperate some better poet than myself to the production of versions nearer to the magnificent originals, they will at least have justified their existence.
CONTENTS
FROM THE OLD NORSE
THE WAKING OF ANGANTHEOW
NOTE.—Swafurlami, a king of the seed of Odin, stole the sword Tyrfing (ripper) from the dwarfs who forged it. They laid on it a curse—that it should bring death to its bearer; that no wound made by it should be healed; and that three deeds of woe should be wrought by it. Swafurlami is slain by Arngrim, who inherits the sword. Eyfura, his wife, has twelve sons, all of whom become Vikings. Angantheow, the eldest, and his brothers, are eventually all slain near Upsala by Hjalmar, and his brother Arrow-Odd; but Hjalmar, being wounded by Tyrfing, has only time to sing his death-song before he dies.
Angantheow’s daughter, Herwor (by his wife Tofa) is brought up as a bond-maid, in ignorance of her parentage. When at last she learns it, the war-fury comes upon her; she arms herself as an Amazon, and goes to Munarvoe in Samsey, in quest of the dwarf-doomed weapon. The following poem concerns her dialogue with her dead father, his yielding up to her of Tyrfing, and his prophecy of the further doom its possession will bring upon her race.
The maid at eve in Munarvoe
Saw the herdsman homeward go.
Shepherd:
Who walketh alone so late i’ the isle?
Go seek thee shelter and sleep awhile
Herwor:
I seek not shelter to sleep awhile,
For I know not the dwellers in the isle;
Tell me, thou, what fain I’d know—
Where is the mound called Hiorward’s Howe?
Shepherd:
Mad thou art, that askest thus,
And thy plight is piteous!
Fly we to shelter, far and fast—
The world without is grim and ghast.
Herwor:
I’ll give thee a neck-ring of gold so red—
Not thus is the friend of heroes stayed!
Shepherd:
No ring that’s wrought of the gold so gay,
No goodly guerdon, my feet shall stay;
Him I hold but a witless wight
That will walk alone in the grisly night.
Fires are flitting, and grave-mounds gape!
Burns field and fen! Seek we to ’scape!
Herwor:
Nay, for their fretting no fright I know,
Tho’ all the isle went up in a lowe.
Nay, it behoves not to fear nor flee
Tho’ ghosts arise. Talk thou with me!
Far to the forest he fled, afraid
To hold discourse with the hardy maid;
But higher-strung for her dauntless quest,
Herwor’s heart swelled in her breast.
Herwor:
Angantheow, wake! the voice is mine,
Tofa’s only child and thine;
Give to me the sword of flame
Forged by dwarfs for Swafurlam!
Angantheow, Herward, Hiorward, Rann
Waken, each and every man!
Waken, waken from your sleep
’Mid the tree-roots, where ye keep
Blood-stained spear and sword and shield—
All the weapons warriors wield.
Surely, seed of Arngrim bold,
Dust ye are, and mounds of mould,
Speechless, if ye let me go,
Eyfur’s sons, in Munarvoe!
Angantheow, Herward, Hiorward, Rann!
Be it in your rib-bones’ span
As of ants a stinging horde,
If ye give me not the sword!
Ghosts no gear should have in ward!
Angantheow:
Herwor, daughter! Wherefore thus
Callest curses down on us?
Mad thou art, distracted maid,
Wilful waking thus the dead!
Surely thou art no mortal wight
That comest thus to the howe at night,
With helm and spear and bright breast-plate,
Ore of the Goths, to the grave-mound’s gate!
Herwor:
Men called me a mortal, till thus I yode
To seek thee out in thine abode.
Give me what the dwarfs have wrought—
Hiding it avails thee not.
Angantheow:
Never hand of sire nor kin
Laid me here, the howe within,
But the foeman two that I did not slay—
Tyrfing one of them bears to-day.
Herwor:
See now that the truth thou tell!
May the grisly fiends of hell
Tear thee piecemeal from thy grave
If thou hast not there the glaive!
Slow thou art, I tell thee true,
To give thine only child her due!
Angantheow:
Hell-gate is opening—the graves gape wide!
The isle is flaming on every side!
All is ghastly and grim to see—
Back to thy ships, maid! Turn and flee.
Herwor:
Never a bale that burns by night
Shall put me with its flame to flight.
Never thy daughter’s heart shall shrink
Tho’ a ghost should stand at the grave-mound’s brink.
I bind ye all with a magic doom
To lie and rot within the tomb!
Hjalmar’s bane, from out the howe,
The sharp mail-scather, give me now!
Angantheow:
Under my shoulders lies Hjalmar’s bane,
Fenced with a fire that will not wane
No maiden I ken of earthly mould
Will dare such a blade in her hand to hold.
Herwor:
May I have the shining blade
I will hold it, unafraid.
It scares me not, it sinks and dies,
The burning flame, before mine eyes.
Angantheow:
Herwor the brave, art mad, to go
Open-eyed into the lowe!
Rather with the sword shalt hie thee;
Nothing, maid, can I deny thee.
(He gives her the sword out of his grave.)
Herwor:
Son of Vikings, well dost thou
To give me the sword from out the howe;
Better to me the boon, I say,
Than were I to conquer all Norroway.
Angantheow:
Little, daughter, dost thou know
Wherefore thou rejoicest so!
Fond, thou speakest words of woe.
Thou shalt bear a son at length
Who will trust in Tyrfing’s strength;
Heidrek, thus his name shall run,
Richer than all beneath the sun.
Herwor:
I must fare to my steeds of the sea;
Gay and glad is my heart in me.
Son of a king, I reck not at all
How my children hereafter strive and brawl!
Angantheow:
Long shalt thou hold and enjoy thy gain;
But keep in the scabbard Hjalmar’s bane.
Touch not the edges, with venom dight,
Worse than a plague to living wight.
Daughter, farewell! The power and pith
Fain would I endue thee with
Of us twelve men, the life and breath
The sons of Arngrim lost in death!
Herwor:
All is accomplished; I must not stay.
Hail, ye in the howe! I will away.
. . . . .
’Twixt life and death, methought, I found me,
When the flaming fire was all around me!
THE LAY OF THRYM
When Thor awoke, his wrath was grim
To find his hammer gone from him.
He shook his beard, he tossed his hair,
The Son of Earth sought here and there.
And first of all he spake this word:
“Listen, Loki! never was heard
In earth or heaven what now I say—
The Thunderer’s hammer is stolen away!”
To Freyja the fair their way they take,
And this is the word that first he spake:
“Lend me thy feather-fell, I pray,
To seek my hammer, that’s stolen away.”
“Were it of silver, or were it of gold,
That would I give thee, that should’st thou hold.”
Loki he flew in the rustling fell
Out of the halls where the Aesir dwell
To Jôtunheim. On a howe sat Thrym,
King o’ the giants, a-twisting trim
Golden bands for his hounds of speed,
And smoothing the mane of his trusty steed;
And this is the word that first he said:
“What of the Aesir? What of the Elves?
Why art thou come to the Giant’s door?”
“’Tis ill with the Aesir, ill with the Elves!
Say, hast thou hidden the hammer of Thor?”
“Yea, I have hidden the hammer of thunder
Eight full fathoms the earth down under;
No man shall win it in all his life
Until he shall bring me Freyja to wife.”
Loki he flew in the rustling fell
Out of the halls where the Giants dwell,
Until he came to Asgard’s bound,
And Thor in the midmost garth he found.
And this is the word that first he said:
“What tidings, toiling, hast thou won?
For a man that sits tells a stumbling tale,
And a man that lies, a lying one.”
“News for my toiling do I bring;
Thrym has thine hammer, the Giant’s king,
No man may win it in all his life
Until he take him Freyja to wife.”
To Freyja the fair their way they take,
And this is the word that first he spake:
“Bind on thy bridal-veil amain,
For to Jôtunheim we must fare, we twain.”
Wroth was Freyja! she caught her breath—
The hall of the Aesir shook beneath,
The Brising necklace snapped in three.
“Marriage-mad is the name for me
If to Jôtunheim I fare with thee!”
All the Aesir to council went,
The mighty ones to parliament,
Gods and goddesses, all in wonder
How to win back the hammer of thunder.
It was Heimdall spake amain,
Whitest of gods, the wily Wane:
“Now bind on Thor the veil so fair,
The Brising necklace let him wear;
Hang round him many a clinking key,
Let woman’s weeds fall to his knee;
Jewels broad on his breast shall shine,
And neatly shall ye the topknot twine!”
Up spake he, mightiest at need:
“Call me a coward’s name indeed
If ever I wear a woman’s weed!”
Up spake Loki, Laufey’s son:
“Thor, with thy witless words have done!
Soon shall the Giants in Asgard reign
Unless thou win thine hammer again.”
On Thor they bound the veil so fair,
The Brising necklace did he wear;
They hung him with many a clinking key,
Let women’s weeds fall to his knee;
Jewels broad on his breast did shine,
And neatly did they the topknot twine.
Then Loki, son of Laufey, said:
“I will go with thee as waiting-maid!”
The goats they harness by two and by one—
To the shafts they are shackled, well can they run!
Valley and hill burst into flame
When Odin’s son to the Giants came.
The King o’ the Giants did loudly call:
“Up now, Giants! strew the benches all!
See where the bride they bring adown,
Daughter of Niord, from Noa-town!
“Kine go here with gilded horn,
Oxen black my garth adorn;
Gold have I and goods galore—
For Freyja alone I long so sore.”
Evening fell on the blithe bridàle;
The Giants sat a-drinking ale.
The greedy spouse of Sif, he ate
Seven salmon, every cate
For the ladies spread, and a goodly steer—
And he drank three tuns, his heart to cheer.
The King o’ the Giants, he up and cried:
“Never was known such a hungry bride!
Ne’er saw I lady so full of greed,
Nor maiden drink so deep of mead!”
Sitting apart, the wily maid
Answered what the Giant said:
“This se’nnight past no meat had she,
So fain she was to come to thee!”
He lifted the veil to kiss the bride,
And the hall’s full length he sprang aside:
“Why are her eyes so full of ire?
Methinks they are darting sparks of fire!”
Sitting apart, the wily maid
Answered what the Giant said:
“This se’nnight past no sleep had she,
So fain she was to come to thee!”
The Giant’s sister entered in,
Greedy a bridal-gift to win:
“Give me thy ring of red, red gold,
If thou my love wouldst have and hold!”
The King o’ the Giants, he up and cried:
“Bear in the hammer to hallow the bride!
To the maiden’s knees now Miöllni bring,
And Var shall hallow our hand-fasting.”
Deep in his breast laughed the heart of Thor,
When his hammer he held once more!
He slew the King o’ Giants, Thrym,
And all his race smote after him.
He smote the Giant’s sister old,
She who begged a gift of gold—
For pence, a pound was what she won,
And a hammer-blow for a gay guerdòn!
Thus back to his hammer came Odin’s son!
FROM THE DANISH
THE NORSE KING’S BRIDAL
Glad was Sir Kaall in the winter,
All up in the northern land;
Unto the King of Norroway
He’s given his daughter’s hand.
(Woe was her heart in the winter!)
All for the King of Norroway
They spread the bridal-feast—
But it was young Sir Biörn
The maiden loved the best.
Up spake the King of Norroway
Before the blithe bridàle—
“Why weeps she, haughty Hyldelil?
Why is her cheek so pale?”
He spake, the King of Norroway,
Unto his pages three—
“Now bid him come, the young Sir Biörn,
And speak a word to me.”
In came he, young Sir Biörn,
And stood before the board:
“What wilt thou, King of Norroway,
That thou hast sent me word?”
“Now hearken, young Sir Biörn,
Thou knight so fair and fine!
Say, wilt thou be my seneschal,
And pour my bridal wine?”
“Yea, fain will I be seneschal
All at thy bridal fair,
If I may pour the red, red wine,
Before the bride to bear.”
Sir Biörn poured the mead so brown,
And poured the red, red wine;
The bride she sat full sorrowful,
And wept for dule and pine.
It was the young Sir Biörn
That leaned across the board,
And whispered to that weeping bride
Full many a wooing word:
“Dost mind now, haughty Hyldelil,
What passed between us both,
When, sitting in thy maiden’s bower,
Thou plightedst me thy troth?”
The bride she sat so sorrowful,
And ne’er a word she said—
But her fair face grew white and wan,
That as a rose was red.
Up spake the King of Norroway
In purple wrapped and vair;
“What sayest thou, oh young Sir Biörn,
Unto my bride so fair?
“Away, thou young Sir Biörn!
Let be thy cozening tale!
Her face that as a rose was red
Is now grown wan and pale.”
“There sitt’st thou, King of Norroway,
A-drinking red, red wine!
The lady that thou lovest
Was first true love o’ mine!”
“And if the lady that I love
Has plighted troth to thee,
Then never will I bear her home
To Norroway with me.
“Now tell me on thy faith and troth,
What I shall ask, my bride!
Wilt reign a queen in Norroway,
Or a dame in Denmark bide?”
“Liefer I’d bide a simple dame
A good knight’s name to bear,
Than go with thee to Norroway,
A queenly crown to wear!”
It was the King of Norroway
Smote hand upon the board—
“Ne’er have I known a knight’s daughter
That e’er spake such a word!”
It was the King of Norroway
That laughed, and made right merry—
“And dost thou love him more than me,
With him I trow shalt tarry!”
They rode away, the King his men,
So sadly over the land,
All but the young Sir Biörn
That won the maiden’s hand.
They rode away, the King his men,
So sadly over the ice—
All but the young Sir Biörn,
For he has won the prize!
(Woe was her heart in the winter.)
THE GIPSY’S BRIDE
There lived a gentle maiden all by the water wan;
She was the fairest maiden that e’er the sun shone on.
(Oh, oh, ha! all by the water wan!
She was the fairest maiden that e’er the sun shone on.)
To her there came a-wooing five princes fair and tall;
Yet they were not so beauteous but she denied ’em all.
To her there came a-wooing five counts so fair and tall;
Yet they were not so beauteous but she denied ’em all.
To her there came a-wooing five franklins fair and tall;
Yet they were not so beauteous but she denied ’em all.
There came a cunning gipsy a-roaming to the town,
They gave him gold and guerdon to bring her pride adown.
“Now lend to me a saddle, a mantle, and a beast,
And I’ll ride a-wooing, as proud as any priest!”
He rode, the cunning gipsy, unto the castle fair;
There she stood, the maiden, a-combing of her hair.
“Good-morrow, my lady, so fair, and so fine!
Say, wilt thou come to be true-love o’ mine?”
“Away with thee, thou gipsy! I scorn thy words so free!
Counts and mighty princes have come a-wooing me!”
“Good sooth, I am no gipsy, tho’ thou biddest me begone;
I am the proudest king’s son that e’er the sun shone on.
“I have goodly acres, and fields so fair and broad;
I have serving maidens, who shall spread thy board.
“I have a goodly garden of herbs a-growing green,
Where thou, my love, shalt wander, out and in.
“I have three dappled palfreys a-tossing of their crest,
That thou and I, my sweetheart, may ride among the best.”
When the wedding now was over, and all the feasting done,
Then asked the lovely maiden his lands to look upon.
“Where are thy goodly acres, and where thy lands so broad?
And where are all thy serving-maids, for us shall spread the board?”
“I have no goodly acres, I have no lands so broad;
And never have I eaten at an honest man his board.
I have no goodly garden of herbs a-growing green;
Thro’ all men’s courts I wander, out and in.
“I have no dappled palfreys, a-tossing of their crest;
But only my long hunting-knife, of all my goods the best!”
And she may laugh, the lady, or she may weep for woe,
But the gipsy she must follow, wherever he may go.
The lady must turn up her silken sleeves so gay,
And help that cunning gipsy the slaughtered beasts to flay.
Now must she quit her kirtle and her silken sark so fair,
For silken sark and kirtle she nevermore shall wear.
(Oh, oh, ha! her silken sark so fair!
For silken sark and kirtle she nevermore shall wear.)
HAGEN AT THE DANCE
The King sits up in Ribe,
Drinking red wine;
He’s sent to all his Danish knights
Of noble line.
(So daintily danced he, Hagen!)
“Stand up now, all my meinè,
And knights so bold!
Tread ye for me a merry dance
All on the windy wold.”
Listed him there to dance,
The Danish King;
With them went haughty Hagen,
The round to sing.
The Queen awoke from slumber,
And laughed so low—
“Which one of all my maidens
Strikes the harp so?”
“Nay, none of thy merry maidens
Strikes the harp-strings;
That is haughty Hagen,
So sweet that sings.”
“Stand up now, all my ladies!
Wreathe the red rose!
We will fare forth, to see
How the dance goes.”
Forth rode the Queen o’ Danes,
In scarlet clad—
With her went many a dainty dame,
And damsel glad.
Withershins rode the Queen
Around the wold;
There saw she haughty Hagen,
That knight so bold.
It was haughty Hagen
Spake up so free;
“Listeth thee now, my gracious dame,
To dance with me?”
Up stands he, haughty Hagen,
All with the Queen to dance—
Good sooth, they there made merry
With gay pastance.
Up and spake the little maid
In kirtle blue;
“Beware, beware! for traitors’ eyes
Watch all ye do!”
“I heed them not, those traitors—
God grant them dule and pine!—
Would God that haughty Hagen
Might e’er be mine!
“Dearer to me is Hagen,
In tunic old,
Than e’er is he, the King o’ Danes,
In crown of gold!
“Dearer to me is Hagen,
Poor and alone,
Than e’er is he, the King o’ Danes,
Upon his throne!”
It was the King o’ Danes
Did speak and say:
“What listeth thus the queen
To dance and play?
“Better to sit in the ladies’ bower
With harp of gold
Than thus to stand by Hagen’s side
On the green wold.”
Up and spake the little maid
In kirtle red;
“Hast heard, hast heard, my gracious dame,
What the King said?”
“So newly have I here begun
The merry dance to trace,
The King right well may tarry
A little space!”
Up and spake the little lad
In purple weed;
“The King o’ Danes is riding home—
Take heed, take heed!”
Shame fall on haughty Hagen
And all his lore!
The Queen sits in the ladies’ bower,
And sighs so sore.
(So daintily danced he, Hagen!)
THE LOWLY SQUIRE
Seven long years as a lowly squire
I served mine own liege-lord;
But of his daughter fair to see
They told me never a word.
(And is she glad, then I rejoice.)
Ne’er did I hear a word of her,
Nor see the lovely lass,
Till Easter-day in the morning
When she should go to Mass.
Thus it went from Easter
All unto Whitsuntide;
The maiden donned her fairest weed
Unto the kirk to ride.
The maiden donned her fairest weed
Unto the kirk to ride;
I set my saddle on my steed
And went at the maiden’s side
There, as I rode by the maiden’s side,
Like red gold shone her hair;
And every man right well might mark
My heart was full of care.
We rode across the lee-land
To the good greenwood amain,
And never did my hand loose hold
Of the maiden’s bridle-rein.
“Hold off, hold off, thou fair young squire,
And do not ride so near!
Well can I see thy foolish heart
Doth hold me all too dear.”
“I may not eat, I may not drink,
I dwell in dule and pine—
And all the night and every night,
I dream that thou art mine.
“Good sooth, I am but a poor young squire—
God make me rich and great!
God give me land, as I have love,
To be thy worthy mate!”
“Now dress thee in thy fairest weed,
Speak not to living wight—
For I will pray my father dear,
And he will dub thee knight.
“Then come into the ladies’ bower,
And stand thou not too near,
That never a living wight may know
How thou dost hold me dear.”
I went into the ladies’ bower,
Right sore afraid was I!
I looked not at my own true love
Lest the serving-maid should spy.
She smiled, the lovely lady,
Beneath her veil so thin;
“Now who is he, the stranger squire,
That comes so boldly in?”
Now thanks be to the kindly Count,
So leal a lord was he!
He gave away his daughter dear
My beauteous bride to be.
(And is she glad, then I rejoice.)
THE DROWNING OF JOHN REMORSSON
The good ship lies on the lee-land,
And under her grows the grass,
Oh never so rash a steersman
As Sir John Remorsson was!
(For the sea she taketh so many.)
The King sits up in Ribe
And a letter writeth he;
He bids his gallant captains
Make ready for the sea.
It was Sir John Remorsson
Put on his armour bright—
“The man is faithless to his king
That will not sail to-night!”
It was Sir John Remorsson
That girt him with his sword—
“The man who will not sail to-day
Is faithless to his lord!
“To-night will we make merry
And drink the foaming ale,
And if the favouring weather hold,
To-morrow we’ll set sail.”
It was the skipper Hogen
Looked to the sky amain—
“He that will sail the sea to-day
Will ne’er come home again!”
It was Sir John Remorsson
To the haven cried aloud—
“Up with your sails, ye Danish men,
In the great name of God!”
They had not sailed from land a league—
The waves they ran so high—
All sad sat skipper Hogen
With the salt tear in his eye.
They had not sailed from land a league—
The waves they ran so deep—
All sad sat skipper Hogen,
And sorely did he weep.
“Where is the doughty champion
Yestre’en that talked so gay?
Let him now take the helm in hand,
For the anchor is reft away.
“Where is the doughty champion
That talked so loud last even?
Let him now take the helm in hand,
For the sail is rent and riven.
“Now we will cast the lots around,
And bide by heaven’s word;
Is there a man of evil life,
We’ll heave him overboard.”
And straight they cast the lots around
To see who worked them woe;
And the lot has fallen on good Sir John
All overboard to go.
“So far, so far from land are we,
With never a priest anear!
But I will make my shrift aloud,
And trust that God will hear.”
It was Sir John Remorsson
Fell on his bended knee,
And there he made his shrift aloud
Before the mainmast tree.
“Full many a wife have I beguiled,
And maidens bright of lee—
But never, ah never, good sooth, I thought
That I should die by sea!
“Many a maiden have I beguiled,
And many a loving wife—
But never, ah never, good sooth, I thought
That the sea would have my life!
“The merciful Christ in heaven above
I pray to pity me,
For well I wot my sinful soul
A heavy weird must dree.
“If ever a one of you comes to land,
And meets my love of yore,
Tell her to wed whene’er she may—
She’ll see my face no more.
“If ever a one of you comes to land
And meets my mother dear,
Tell her I dwell in the king his court
In mirth and goodly cheer!”
Seven and seventy there they sailed
Over the billows blue;
And only five came home again
Of those liege-men tall and true.
Now we will up to the goodly kirk,
High God His grace to pray
All for the soul of good Sir John,
For his corse is cast away.
All out, all out by Boringholm
The tides they run amain,
And there floats many a goodly corse
Will ne’er come home again!
(For the sea she taketh so many.)
SIR DALEBO’S VENGEANCE
Sir Dalebo built him a ship so great,
The king himself had not its mate.
They knew not Sir Dalebo Jonsen.
The king from his window was looking forth so free;
“Whose is the gallant ship a-sailing in the sea?”
“Now that is Sir Dalebo Jonsen’s.”
Up spake the king to his captains bold:
“Bind him, Sir Dalebo, have him and hold!
Bind him, Sir Dalebo Jonsen!”
Up sprang the captains on their steeds of dapple grey,
And forth they galloped faster than a bird can fly away—
For they knew not Dalebo Jonsen!
Now they are come to his castle fair and great,
And there stood his mother a-tarrying by the gate;
“Show us Sir Dalebo Jonsen!”
“I cannot show you Dalebo, I know not where he be,
For it is seven years and more he rode away from me—
I can show him not, Dalebo Jonsen.”
The captain pulled off his cap of blue,
A thousand gold-pieces he told so true—
“Now show us Sir Dalebo Jonsen!”
“To the east o’ the court, in the bower above,
Sir Dalebo talks with his own true love;
Ye can find him there, Dalebo Jonsen.”
They knocked at the door with shield and with spear;
Up sprang Sir Dalebo: “Whom have we here?
Who are these?” said Dalebo Jonsen.
He put on his armour all shining and bright,
Little Kirsten she clasped it, the best that she might—
“Clasp it hard!” said Dalebo Jonsen.
Sir Dalebo out of the window sprang—
His gold-hilted sword at his girdle rang—
“I come!” said Dalebo Jonsen.
He struck down one, he struck down two—
“’Tis thus the goodly game should go!
Doth it like ye?” said Dalebo Jonsen.
He struck down three, he struck down four—
“The game goes better than of yore!
What think ye?” said Dalebo Jonsen.
Sir Dalebo he mounted his steed of dapple-grey,
And forth he galloped faster than a bird can fly away,
“Tread softly!” said Dalebo Jonsen.
Sir Dalebo has come to his castle fair and great,
There stood his mother, a-tarrying by the gate—
“Good-morrow!” said Dalebo Jonsen.
“Hearken, dear mother, to what I ask of thee!
What didst thou with the money my foemen paid for me?
I ask it, Sir Dalebo Jonsen.”
“Ah, Dalebo, ah, Dalebo, and wilt thou work me woe?
Never for all the world would I sell thee to thy foe—
I sold thee not, Dalebo Jonsen.”
He drew his shining sword, and struck her where she stood,
And all so small he hewed her as the beech-leaves in the wood—
“Lie thou there!” said Dalebo Jonsen.
Sir Dalebo he mounted his steed of dapple-grey,
And forth he galloped faster than a bird that flies away—
For wroth was Sir Dalebo Jonsen.
Sir Dalebo has ridden to the castle fair and great;
There stood the King o’ Danes, a-tarrying by the gate.
“Good greeting!” said Dalebo Jonsen.
“Hearken now, Sir Dalebo, and look thou tell to me!
Where are they, my champions, I sent of late to thee?
Tell me that, Sir Dalebo Jonsen!”
“Oh some of them are sick, and some of them are sore,
And some are lying still, to rise again no more,
That thou sentest to Dalebo Jonsen.
“Go then, get thy salt, bid thy scullions ready be,
If thou wilt salt the flesh that I have carved for thee!
I rede thee, Sir Dalebo Jonsen.”
“I pray thee, dear Sir Dalebo, now sheathe thy shining brand!
For freely will I give thee mine only daughter’s hand!
I pray thee, Sir Dalebo Jonsen!”
“What reck I of your wenches, or your serving-maids so gay?
I have mine own true sweetheart, that’s fairer far than they!
I say it, Dalebo Jonsen!”
THE LUCK OF THE LINDEN-TREE
Of two true-lovers this tale I tell,
That loved each other long and well.
(We tread the dance so featly.)
Their love it nourished as fair and free
As the branch grows green on the linden-tree.
The knight to other lands must roam—
The lady, she must bide at home.
“I’ll plant a linden by thy bower,
Leaves that beareth, and many a flower.
“And when the linden sheds its leaves,
Then shalt thou know thy true-love grieves.
“And when the tree its flowers hath shed,
Then shalt thou know thy love is dead.”
When night was done and dawn was grey
The lady looked upon the brae.
“God bless the tree, so green it grows!
Well fares my love, where’er he goes!”
That heard the wily serving-maid;
Those lovers true hath she betrayed.
The serving-maid, she up and spake:
“I’ll spill your loves ere dawn shall break!”
The serving-maid, so false was she,
She tore the leaves from the linden-tree.
When night was done and dawn was grey
The lady looked upon the brae.
“The linden-tree hath shed its leaves—
“Full well I wot my true-love grieves.
“The linden-tree its flowers hath shed—
I wot full well my love is dead.
“And is he dead, my heart’s desire,
My bower and all I’ll burn with fire.”
She’s laid a brand her bower unto—
She’s choked herself with the bolster blue.
When all the bower in a bale did stand
Her love came a-sailing back to land.
When all the bower was ashes and dust
Her love put in to the selfsame coast.
Unto his page he spake, the knight—
“Whose bower is this that burns so bright?
“If my true-love is dead, I say,
God wot, I’ll die the self-same day.”
Against a stone he set his hilt,
And there his heart’s blood hath he spilt.
(We tread the dance so featly.)
AGNES AND THE MERMAN
Agnes she walked on the cliff so steep;
Up came a merman out of the deep.
(Ha, ha, ha!
Up came a merman out of the deep.)
“Hearken now, Agnes, so fair and so fine!
Say, wilt thou come to be true love o’ mine?”
“Yes, good sooth, that will I be—
But how can I dwell in the depths of the sea?”
He has stopped her ears, and stopped her mouth as well;
So he bore her down, all in the sea to dwell.
She dwelt with the merman eight years and more—
Seven fair sons to him she bore.
Agnes she sat by the cradle and sang,
And she heard how the bells of England rang.
Unto the merman she then did say:
“May I go up to the kirk to pray?”
“Yes, thou shalt go, and pray withal;
But see thou come back to thy children small.
“When thou hast entered the kirkyard fair,
Then shalt thou not let down thy shining golden hair.
“And when thou hast entered the door so wide,
Then sit not down by thy mother’s side.
“When the priest names the Name of dread,
Thou shalt not bow thy head.”
He has stopped her ears, and stopped her mouth amain;
So he bore her up to the English strand again.
When she came to the kirkyard fair,
Then she let down her shining golden hair.
And when she entered the door so wide,
She sat her down by her mother’s side.
When she heard the Name of dread,
Then she bowed down her head.
“Hearken now, Agnes, to what I ask of thee—
Where hast thou been eight years away from me?”
“I dwelt in the sea eight years and more;
Seven sons so fair I to the merman bore.”
“Tell me, dear daughter, and fear no blame,
What did he give for thy maiden fame?”
“He gave me a ring of golden sheen—
Never a better one hath the queen.
“Of golden shoon he gave me a pair—
Never a better the queen may wear.
“He gave me a harp of gold so gay,
That I might play upon, to drive my cares away.”
The merman he made him a path so straight
Up from the strand to the kirkyard gate.
Into the kirk he went, that selfsame day,
And all the holy images, they turned their heads away.
Like the red, red gold was his shining hair;
His eyes were full of sorrow and care.
“Hearken now, Agnes, hearken unto me!
All thy little children are longing after thee.”
“Let them long as they will, yea, let them long so sore!
I shall return to them never more.”
“Think of the big ones, and think of the small!
Of the baby in the cradle think thou most of all.”
“I think not of the big ones, I think not of the small!
Of the baby in the cradle I’ll think no more at all.”
(Ha, ha, ha!
Of the baby in the cradle I’ll think no more at all.)
ORIGINAL
MORS JANUA VITÆ
It was the outworn clay
That slept in endless peace;
It was the dead man’s sprite,
All in the wan moonlight
An hour before the day,
That mourned, and might not cease.
“Oh body, oh body of mine,
Deep, deep and soft thy rest!
Thy burning now is cold
In kindly churchyard and mould,
That weights thy wearied eyne
And thine untroubled breast.
“But I must wander and wail—
Must bear, in wrath and rue,
The burning of quenchless fire—
The frustrate, deep desire
For heights I did not scale,
For deeds I did not do.
“Oh warm life left behind!
Oh hearts that held me dear!
In my remembered place
Dwells healing and solace,
Among the kinsmen kind
Who decked my sepulchre.”