THE NORSE KING’S BRIDAL

By the Same Author

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BALLADS FROM THE DANISH:
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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.

October 5, 1911.

FROM THE OLD NORSE
	PAGE
The Waking of Angantheow	3
The Lay of Thrym	10
FROM THE DANISH
The Norse King’s Bridal	19
The Gipsy’s Bride	23
Hagen at the Dance	27
The Lowly Squire	31
The Drowning of John Remorsson	34
Sir Dalebo’s Vengeance	39
The Luck of the Linden-Tree	45
Agnes and the Merman	48
ORIGINAL
Mors Yanua Vitæ	55
Ballad of the Turning Tide	59
Ballad of All Souls’ Eve	66
The Bride’s Bracelet	75
The Wolf of Ironwood	79
Ballad of Midsummer Eve	84

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 Project Gutenberg eBook of The Norse king's bridal

THE NORSE KING’S
BRIDAL

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

CONTENTS

FROM THE OLD NORSE

THE WAKING OF ANGANTHEOW

THE LAY OF THRYM

FROM THE DANISH

THE NORSE KING’S BRIDAL

THE GIPSY’S BRIDE

HAGEN AT THE DANCE

THE LOWLY SQUIRE