BALLADS FROM THE DANISH NOTE

He set his sail for Norroway, Saint Olaf our good king; For Hornelummer he shaped his course To see what luck would bring. (Red as the ruddy gold, the sun sets over Trondhjem.) Up and spake the steersman bold, Stood by the lading-gear: “At Hornelummer is no good haven, So grim a troll dwells there: “Eyes he hath like a burning brand; With his mouth he well can roar; His nails stand out, like the horns of a buck, A good ell’s length and more; “A beard he hath like a horse’s mane, Hangs downward to his knee; A long and loathly tail he hath; His claws they are ill to see.” Up and spake Saint Olaf the king, As the ship swung to and fro: “Cast off the ropes in the name of God, And let the vessel go!” So soft she sank, so light she rose, O’er the billows she went a-striding; And fast she made for Hornelummer, Where the ugly troll was biding. Out he stalked from his hold i’ the hill, By the rocky rifts a-going, And there he saw Saint Olaf the king In his vessel swiftly rowing. “Now who comes here, so overbold, My magic to defy it? Harken, thou with the ruddy beard! Full sore thou shalt abye it! “Now nor never by this my coast Dares any ship to linger! I could drag thee into the rifts o’ the rocks With the touch of my smallest finger!” “Hear now, Ara, thou ancient imp, Nor anger thyself at all! Seize thou the ship as it liketh thee, And see what will befall.” He took the ship by stem and stern, To work her dule and dree, When lo! he sank down into the stone, That held him by the knee. “Here stand I, sunken in the stone, To go no more a-roving! At wrestling or at hand-play hard Thy strength I’d fain be proving.” “Now tarry thou there, thou wilful wight, All under my powerful charm— Tarry thou there till Doomsday dread, And work no Christian harm.” Out came running his evil mate, And stretched her neck so grim; Saint Olaf spake one little word, Bade her stand still by him. Up and spake the little trolls Who sat i’ the hill down under— They asked where the mother-troll might be, With mickle woe and wonder. “Perchance this is the Red-beard’s work Who hath harried our race so long! But come we forth with our brands of iron, To work him wrong for wrong.” Up and spake our goodly king— He held it a game so merry: “Stone to stone, and rock to rock, Together ye all shall tarry!” Out they sailed from Hornelummer, Well-pleased with the fair adventure; The hill he blocked with a mighty stone, That none therein might enter. Thanks, thanks to Olaf our gallant king! He wrought a goodly charm! Now men may sail by Hornelummer, And take no hurt nor harm. Red as the ruddy gold, the sun sets over Trondhjem.

It was young Sir Karel, His mother’s rede did pray If he should to the convent ride, And bear his love away. (The roses and the lilies all a-blowing.) “Lo, on a bier thou’lt lay thee down, A corse so white and wan— And never a one shall ask of thee If thou art a living man.” Late, so late at even, Sore sickness on him fell; All in the early morning They tolled for him the bell. They took him, young Sir Karel, And streeked him for a corpse; And all to bear the tidings round, His page has taken horse. Upon his bier they bore him To the convent door so wide— The Prioress came to meet them With mickle pomp and pride. Forth then went his little page, Was clad in the scarlet red— He bade the maidens come to watch— “For young Sir Karl is dead.” It was little Kirsten Who asked her mother dear: “Mother, may I to the watching wend Over the young knight’s bier?” “Put thou on thy scarlet cloak, And deck thy head with gold; But be thou ware of young Sir Karl, His wiles are manifold!” She went in where the black bier stood Betwixt the tapers tall; She could not see their burning flames So fast her tears did fall. Right soothly for his soul she prayed, All sitting at his head; “Alas! thou wast my liefest love In the days ere thou wast dead!” She laid her face against his feet, All on the linen white— “Oh, in the days ere thou wast dead Thou wast my heart’s delight!” Right softly then to her he spake: “Nay, cease thy bitter crying! For lo! ’tis all for love of thee That on this bier I’m lying. “My steed stands in the cloister-garth A-tarrying all for thee, If thou now, little Kirsten, Wilt fare afar with me.” It was young Sir Karel Rose up in his shroud so white— And as they went from the convent-door She bade them a gay good-night. The nuns they all sat silent, Each reading on her book; They thought it was God’s good angel The beauteous maid that took. The nuns they all sat silent— Each to herself said she: “God grant that His good angel May speedily come for me!” The roses and the lilies all a-blowing.

Sir Peter he rode to the castle stout, The King o’ the Danes he stood without. (Forward, hurrah! ride forward.) “Welcome hither, my comrade good! Hast thou avenged thy father’s blood?” “Oh, I have been so southerly Until the sun sank down to me. “And I have been so westerly Until the sun set close to me. “And I have been so northerly Until the sun was frore to see. “And I have been so easterly Until the day was fair to see. “But never could I find the wight My father’s death could rede me right.” “Say, what gift wilt give the wight Thy father’s death can rede thee right?” “Of silver he shall have his fill, And of good red gold whate’er he will.” He smiled, the king, his words to heed— “Here stand I, that did the deed! “By God in heaven, I tell thee true! None but I thy father slew.” Sir Peter smote himself on the breast— “Heart, be still, nor break thy rest! “Heart, be still, bide patiently! Sure and swift shall my vengeance be!” Alone Sir Peter stayed To speak with his good blade. “Harken, sword so good! Wilt steep thyself in blood? “Good brown brand, wilt fight for me? No brother have I in the world but thee.” “Say, how can I fight for thee? My good hilt lies in pieces three.” Straight to the smith he wended To have the fault amended. He gave him iron, he gave him steel Of proof and price, the hurt to heal. “Good brown brand, wilt fight for me? No brother have I in the world but thee.” “Deal thou thy strokes so lustily As I’ll be sharp and swift for thee. “Be thou in thy blows so bold As strongly to my hilt I’ll hold.” Sir Peter went to the hall Where the knights were drinking all. To prove his sword he was so fain, Eight of the champions there lay slain. He struck so strong, he hewed so hard, Neither wife nor maid he spared. Behind the arras there he thrust— The king and his sons they bit the dust. Up spake the babe, in cradle lay: “A red revenge dost thou wreak to-day! “A red revenge for that sire o’ thine!— God give me a day for avenging mine!” “And have I avenged him, sire o’ mine? Thou shalt have no day for avenging thine.” He seized the babe amain, And hewed it straight in twain. “Cease, good sword, thy thirst to slake! Bide thou still, for God his sake!” Wearily whispered the sword and still— “Fain of thy blood I’d have my fill! “Hadst thou not named my name, I vow I would have slain thee, here and now!” Forward, hurrah! ride forward.

Elder to younger said (For him who first loved me), “Sister, wilt thou not wed?” (She dwells beneath the greenwood tree.) “None will I wed while I draw breath Till I have avenged our father’s death.” “Thou speak’st an idle word, We have neither mail nor sword.” “There are rich franklins dwelling hard by— Mail will they lend us, and swords to try.” Each maiden bound a sword by her side, Featly fared they forth to ride. When they rode to Rosy-Bower They met Sir Erland the self-same hour. “Bridegrooms are ye both, ye two, Or else ye are riding forth to woo.” “Bridegrooms are we not, we two, But we are riding forth to woo.” “I rede ye ride where dwell in a bower Two fatherless maidens, with gold for dower.” “If they have store of pelf Why seek’st them not thyself?” “I would flee them rather, For I have slain their father, “And I have slain their brother, And I have beguiled their mother.” “And hast thou slain father and brother, Thou liest concerning our mother.” So child-like out the swords they drew— So man-like did they hack and hew. They hewed Sir Erland all so small As the linden leaves that flutter and fall, Sore did the maidens weep for woe When to shrive them they must go. All they got for the deed of dread Was Fridays three on water and bread! For him who first loved me: She dwells beneath the greenwood tree.

What shall I do in Denmark? My corselet sore doth gall— The Danish knights make mock o’ me, For I am young and small. (Ne’er shall I speak good Danish!) Firm he sat in the saddle; His spurs were sharp and long. At Lundy kirk in Skaane There heard he even-song. Up and spake Sir Peter, That was his parish priest: “Welcome to thee, young Danneved! To-day shalt be my guest.” “For meat I will not tarry, Nor will I wait for wine, Until I come to Berneskov, To talk with mother mine.” “Harken now, young Danneved, And give thou heed to me! A troop of thy deadly foemen Are lying in wait for thee.” “First I trust my goodly sword, And next my steed so tall, And then I trust my Danish men— But myself the most of all.” “First trustest thou thy goodly sword, And next thy steed so tall— Then trustest thou thy Danish men Will fail thee first of all.” It was gallant Danneved Rode forth i’ the gloaming grey— And there he saw his foemen, Three lances’ length away. There he saw his foemen, Three lances’ length away— Then took they leave, his meiné, To flee from him that day. Leave took all his meiné To turn and flee away, All save the lad so little, Who straight did up and say: “Lo! thy bread I’ve eaten, And I have worn thy weed; And I will stand by thee to-day To help thee in thy need. “I thy sword have sharpened, And I have stalled thy steed; And I will stand by thee to-day To help thee in thy need.” They drew their ranks together All by the greenwood bower— Five there fought a couple With mickle strength and stour. They drew their ranks together Under the greenwood tree— Five there fought a couple— A fearful fight to see. It was gallant Danneved, His sword sheathed at his side— “Come thou hither, little boy Trust, ’Tis time for us to ride.” It was gallant Danneved Rode to his castle fair; His mother came to meet him In velvet wrapped and vair. “Stand up, now, lady mother, And pour for us the wine! For I will give him, little boy Trust, The hand of sister mine.” Ne’er shall I speak good Danish!

Gay was the dance in the kirkyard fair. (Well aday!) There danced maidens with flowing hair. (Methinks ’tis hard to ride away.) There danced knights with shining sword— “None of them all is worth a word!” Proud was the Princess, thus did she say, That heard the merman under water that lay. Up stood the merman; thus spake he: “Perchance the king’s daughter will wed with me.” He shaped him garments all glimmering; He called him Sir Alfast, son of a king. He shaped him a steed, so black and bold; He rode like a knight in a saddle of gold. He tied his steed where the shade was mirk; Withershins went he round the kirk. Into the kirk he went, so gay, And all the holy images they turned their heads away. Up spake the priest by the altar that stood— “Who may he be, this knight so good?” The Princess smiled ’neath her veil so fine— “Would to God that the knight were mine!” “Listen, proud Princess, and love thou me— A crown of gold I’ll give to thee.” “Over three kingdoms my father was king, But he never gave me so fair a thing.” He wrapped her in his cloak of blue— Out of the kirk they went, they two. They met upon the wold The steed with saddle of gold. When they rode o’er the lea, He became a troll, so foul to see. When they rode down to the water’s brim, He became a troll, so fierce and grim. “Sir Alfast, thou art christened man— What wilt thou with this water wan?” “No knight am I, nor christened man— My home is in this water wan.” When they reached the midmost Sound, Fifty fathom they sank to ground. Long heard the fishers with dread and dree How the king’s daughter sobbed under the sea! Well aday! Methinks ’tis hard to ride away.

The raven flies at even That flies not in the light, And he must take the black fortune That may not take the white. (At even flies the raven.) It was little Elva Fared forth from the castle high; She saw the wild wood-raven That flew across the sky. “Fly down, thou wild wood-raven, And speak a word with me; All my secret sorrow That I will tell to thee. “My father gave me the son of a king To plight me heart and hand— She sent him, my cruel step-mother, Afar to a foreign land. “She sent him, my cruel step-mother, Forth under spell and ban; She bade me love her brother foul, Was liker a troll than a man.” “Say now, little Elva, What wilt thou give to me All to the land of thy lover If I shall carry thee?” “I’ll give to thee the silver white, But and the ruddy gold— Be kind, thou wild wood-raven! Thy spells are manifold.” “A fairer gift than silver! A goodlier gift than gold! The first-born son that thou shalt bear Him will I have and hold.” All in the swarthy raven’s claw Her snow-white hand she laid; She promised him her first-born son By the faith of a Christian maid. He took her, little Elva, Set her his wings between— With mickle toil and pain he flew Across the sea so green. It was the wild wood-raven Upon the tower stood still; “Be glad now, little Elva! Thou shalt have all thy will!” Forth came bold Sir Nilus With gold rings on his hand; “Welcome now, little Elva, All to this foreign land! “Thanks to thee, wild wood-raven! Fly o’er the land amain, And when a year is past and gone Then come thou here again.” He went, the wild wood-raven, Flew o’er the land amain, And when a year was past and gone He came to them again. It was the wild wood-raven, Upon the tower perched he— “Hast thou forgotten, Elva, The gift thou shalt give to me?” “Now wrap him in the linen white, The little babe I bore! Take him, thou wild wood-raven— His mother he’ll see no more.” He’s pierced him in the lily breast, And drunk the hot heart’s blood— Then rose the raven as fair a knight As e’er in the country stood. At even flies the raven.

So merry the knights were sitting Around the queen’s own board— Many a laugh was among them, And many a waggish word. (Under the lindens, there will I bide.) No word of the kirk was spoken, And never a word of the cloister, But many a word of the ladies Who had fair maids to foster. “I will have a maiden Who can both broider and sew; I will not have a maiden Goes gadding to and fro. “I will have a maiden Who well can spread the board; I will not have a maiden Too ready with her word.” Silent sat all the maidens, And never spoke a word; All save the youngest maiden, Stood at the queen’s own board. “If I so old were waxen That my maiden days were over, So help me God in Heaven! Thou shouldst not be my lover. “I must bide in my bower ... I can both broider and sew— Thou wouldst mount thy gallant steed, Go gadding to and fro. “I must bide in my bower ... Right well can I spread my board— Thou in the Thing wouldst be standing, And wasting full many a word. “I must bide in my bower, A-guiding my household gear— Thou wouldst be sitting ’mid lords and knights, Nor holding thy tongue for fear.” Up he stood, Sir Peter, So ready with his tongue— “Lo! I have found the self-same maid That I had sought so long!” Merry were all the maidens That goodly game to see; The queen she gave the maid away, Sir Peter’s bride to be! Under the lindens, there will I bide.

Ranil bade saddle his steed so free— “The wealthy Margrave I’ll go see, Tho’ I am severed both from friends and kinsmen.” Sir Ranil rode into the courtyard fair, There stood the Margrave, wrapped all in vair. (Lo! I am severed both from friends and kinsmen.) “There standest thou, Margrave, in furs so fine! Give me now Kirsten, true love o’ mine, For sorely am I severed from friends and kinsmen.” Up spake her mother, who loved her so dear— “Never a sweetheart shalt thou have here, Since thou art severed both from friends and kinsmen.” “If ye refuse me my heart’s desire All that ye have I will burn with fire, Since I am severed both from friends and kinsmen.” “All that I have wilt thou burn with fire? Then ride thou away with thy heart’s desire, Tho’ thou art severed both from friends and kinsmen.” They wrapped her in a cloak of red, And lifted her on to Ranil’s steed, Tho’ he was severed both from friends and kinsmen. Nought for their bridal bower they found But the wood and the wild and the low green ground— So sorely was he severed from friends and kinsmen. “If King Eric thou hadst not slain, In the fair castles we might have lain— Now we are severed both from friends and kinsmen.” He struck her on the brow so fair— “One should order one’s words when guests are there, Now we are severed both from friends and kinsmen.” He struck her on the cheek so red— “I never wished King Eric dead, Altho’ I am severed both from friends and kinsmen. “Forests have ears, and fields have eyes— We must wander, my maid, as the wild swan flies, Now we are severed both from friends and kinsmen.”

Lo now, I bid you, my merry men all, Put your armour on,[A] Bind on your helms of the burning gold, And follow Sir John! Sir Peter rides home from the Thing so fleet, (Put your armour on), Little Kirstin comes forth her father to greet— And ask after John. “Welcome, dear father, home from the Thing! (Put your armour on) Say now, what tidings hast thou to bring?” What news of Sir John? “This is the news that I bring to thee— (Put your armour on), That young Sir Lovel thy bridegroom shall be, And not Sir John.” “If young Sir Lovel my bridegroom shall be (Put your armour on), Sorrow and care he shall have with me.” Oh fickle Sir John! Sir Lovel he rides to his bridal bright; (Put your armour on)— Sir John has saddled his war-horse white— “I go too,” says John. Sir John he rode to the blithe bridàle (Put your armour on) High on his horse, in his coat of mail. “I’m coming,” said John. The bride she busked her, so runs the rime (Put your armour on), As the bells were ringing a merry chime— “I’m ready,” said John. Down to the kirk-door came the bride, (Put your armour on)— And bold Sir John was close at her side— “I’m first,” said John. He lifted her up on his war-horse white (Put your armour on)— “I wish Sir Lovel a gay good-night!” All from Sir John. When dawn is red, and the small birds sing (Put your armour on), Sir Lovel has ridden to seek the king. “I go too,” says John. “My liege, my liege, an thou wilt hear (Put your armour on), I’ve a tale of wrong for thy gracious ear!” “’Tis of me,” said John. “Yest’re’en it was my bridal gay (Put your armour on), But another knight bore the bride away.” “’Twas I,” said John. “Since to ye both the maid is so dear (Put your armour on), Lo! for her love ye shall break a spear.” “I shall win,” said John. The first course that they rode together (Put your armour on), Sir Lovel he broke his stirrup-leather. “Hold up,” said John. But when they ran the second course (Put your armour on), Dead fell Sir Lovel, hurled from his horse— “Lie there!” said John. The bride clapped her hands to see the show (Put your armour on)— “Ha! ha! for the wolf and the carrion-crow!” So he won, Sir John. Bind on your helms of the burning gold, And follow Sir John!

Three maidens sat in a bower, Two broidered with gold— The third she wept her lover Under darksome mould. (For she loved the knight so truly.) It was the knight Sir Aager Rode in his own countrie; He loved the lady Elsa, So fair was she. He wooed the lady Elsa With gifts and gold— On Monday thereafter Lay he i’ the mould. She wrung her hands, fair Elsa, With wellaway— That heard the knight Sir Aager Low where he lay. Up stood the knight Sir Aager, His coffin took amain, And forth he fared to his true-love’s bower With mickle pain. There knocked he with his coffin— No sword had he— “Stand up, thou Lady Elsa! Open to me!” Then spake the lady Elsa, With tears spake she: “Canst thou name our Saviour I’ll open to thee.” “Stand up, thou lady Elsa! Open thy door! For I can name our Saviour As I could before.” Up stood she, lady Elsa, With drearihead— Straight opened she her bower door, Let in the dead. She took her golden comb To comb his hair— For every lock she ordered Down fell a tear. “Hear, thou knight Sir Aager, Liefest love o’ mine! How is it under darksome earth In grave of thine?” “So is it in the darksome earth In my low bed, As up in holy heaven, Where all are glad.” “Hear, thou knight Sir Aager, Liefest love and dear! Down with thee in darksome earth Fain would I fare.” “So is it in the darksome earth Down where I dwell, As it is grim and ghastly In blackest hell. “For every tear thou weepest In woeful mood, Into my coffin falls a drop Of thy heart’s blood. “Up above mine head The green grass grows; Down beside my feet The wild worm goes. “When thy mood is merry, For each word said, Out of my grave there springeth up Roses red. “I hear the red cock crowing I’ the mirk so grey, And all the doors are opening— I must away. “I hear the black cock crowing In the farm-stead— And I must to the kirkyard With all the dead.” Up stood the knight Sir Aager, His coffin took again: He went his way to the kirkyard With mickle pain. Up she rose, proud Elsa, Sad was her mood— She followed him, her own true love, To the dark wood. When through the wood they wended To kirkyard fair, Wan it grew and faded, His goodly golden hair. “Behold thou up in heaven The stars so bright! There mayst thou see so soothly How goes the night.” She saw them up in heaven, The stars so fair; Down in the earth the dead man sank Ere she was ’ware. Home went the lady Elsa, With care so cold— On Monday thereafter Lay she i’ the mould. For she loved the knight so truly.