FROM THE DANISH

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.)

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.)

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!)

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 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 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!”

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 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.)