The Project Gutenberg eBook of Ballads from the Danish and Original Verses

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Title: Ballads from the Danish and Original Verses

Author: E. M. Smith-Dampier

Release date: May 30, 2022 [eBook #68204]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: Andrew Melrose, 1910

Credits: Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BALLADS FROM THE DANISH AND ORIGINAL VERSES ***

BALLADS
FROM THE DANISH
AND
ORIGINAL VERSES

BALLADS
FROM THE DANISH

AND

ORIGINAL VERSES

BY

E. M. SMITH-DAMPIER



LONDON :: ANDREW MELROSE
3 YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN
1910


PRINTED BY
HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD.,
LONDON AND AYLESBURY.

TO THE
MEMORY OF MY PARENTS

CONTENTS

BALLADS FROM THE DANISH
  PAGE
King Olaf and the Trolls3
Sir Karl’s Lykewake7
The Avenging Sword10
The Avenging Daughters14
Young Danneved and Boy Trust17
The Knavish Merman21
The Wood-Raven24
An Ower-true Tale28
The Wooing of Ranil Jonson31
Lovel and John34
Rime of the Dead Lover38
ORIGINAL VERSES
The King’s Hunting45
Ballad of Sir Herluin54
Bothwell’s Soothsaying58
The Riding of the Shee (A Ballad of Prince Charlie)65
Ballad of London Town (A Song of the ’Forty-five)68
Ballad of the Traitor’s Head (1746)70

 

 

BALLADS FROM THE DANISH

NOTE

In the translations the metre of the original has in all cases been scrupulously followed.

KING OLAF AND THE TROLLS

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.

SIR KARL’S LYKEWAKE

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.

THE AVENGING SWORD

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.

THE AVENGING DAUGHTERS

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.

YOUNG DANNEVED AND BOY TRUST

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!

THE KNAVISH MERMAN

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 WOOD-RAVEN

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.

AN OWER-TRUE TALE

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.

THE WOOING OF RANIL JONSON

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.”

LOVEL AND JOHN