Chapter 4 of 7 · 3981 words · ~20 min read

Part 4

Oh, she has heard their counsel, The evil serving-maid; She’s stolen away his byrnie brown But and his trusty blade.

Both trusty blade and byrnie brown She’s secretly stolen away; She’s hied her to the chamber fair Where Sivord the King he lay.

“Oh, sleep ye, wake ye, my noble lord? Your slumber is all too deep! For now lies Havbor, the son of kings, By your daughter’s side asleep.”

“Now hold thy peace, thou evil maid, For an thou art a liar, To-morrow or ever the sun goes down Thou shalt be burnt with fire!”

“Lithe now and listen, King Sivord, Well may ye trust my word; For here is Havbor’s byrnie brown But and his trusty sword.”

Up he sprang, King Sivord, And cried thro’ bower and hall: “Rise up, rise up, my merry men, And don your armour all!

“Now don your mail, my merry men, And clasp it well enough, For here is Havbor, the son of kings, A warrior tall and tough!”

Oh, they have knocked at the chamber door With glaive and eke with spear: “Rise up now, Havbor, son of kings! Come forth and meet us here!”

Up sprang Havbor, the son of kings, Or ever they spake the word, And he has missed his byrnie brown, But and his trusty sword.

“Oh, gone, gone is my byrnie, And gone my blade so true! Now by my troth, proud Signelil, This meeting we shall rue!”

All hail to Havbor, son of kings, That fought like a warrior stout! Ne’er could his foes come nigh him While the boards of the bed held out.

Oh, some he slew with his naked hands, And some underfoot did tread; Full thirty of King Sivord’s men By Signild’s bower lay dead.

They’ve taken Havbor, the son of kings, And fetters on him they draw; He burst them all asunder As they had been of straw.

Oh, shame be on the serving-maid That gave them counsel there: “Never shall ye bind Havbor But with proud Signild’s hair!”

They took a hair of Signild’s head To bind him foot and hand; His haughty heart had broken Ere he would burst that band.

“Now harken, haughty Signelil! Wilt show thy love to me, Then burn thy bower and all therein When they hang me to a tree!”

“Oh, is there a man of my father’s men That in thy death hath part, Be sure I will avenge it All on his own sweetheart!”

Up spake Havbor, the son of kings, When first he saw the tree: “Hang up my cloak of scarlet A sign for all to see!

“Hang up my cloak of scarlet That is both fair and fine! The ladies all will weep and wail When first they see the sign.”

It was stately Signelil To roof and reed set fire; She and all her maidens Burned in the self-same pyre.

Long stood Havbor, the son of kings, To look his last on land, Until he saw proud Signild’s bower That all in flame did stand.

“Take down, take down my cloak of red, And cast it to earth so deep, For an I had ten thousand lives Not one of them would I keep!”

Up and spake King Sivord, That looked, and needs must speak: “Oh, what is the bale a-burning there, But and the driving reek?”

Up and spake the little foot-page, And sore his tears ran down: “Oh, that is stately Signelil That lets her love be shown!”

“Save her, stately Signelil! See that ye ride and run! Get ye in haste to the gallows And save King Havbor’s son!”

When they came to the bower Signelil’s soul was sped; When they came to the gallows Havbor was hanged and dead.

“Oh, had I known but yesternight How deep in love were they, I would not ha’ done for all Denmark The deed I ha’ done this day!”

Now woe is me for the gallows-tree, And the bower in ashes laid! They’ve buried her in the earth alive, The cruel serving-maid. —Ne’er wilt thou win such a fair one.

EBBE SKAMMELSON

This ballad of a brother’s treachery (which may be compared with our own “Childe Vyet”) dates from _circa_ 1300, and is considered by Olrik as the best produced in Denmark during the mediæval period. In character-drawing it yields to none. Proud Adelus, “strong in will and true in troth,” is the ideal noble lady; the hot-blooded hero, the cowardly brother, and the mother with her unavailing attempt at smoothing things over, are all well individualized. The burden, too, is peculiarly haunting and picturesque.

Tradition points to the Nordentoft homestead in North Jutland (Ty) as the scene of the tragedy; and the great Strangeson family claims Ebbe as its founder.

EBBE SKAMMELSON

Skammel he dwells up north in Ty, And Skammel is rich and gay; Five sons hath he both fair and tall, But two went an evil way. —Therefore roams Ebbe Skammelson so many a lonely way.

Sir Ebbe serves for fame and fee The royal court within, While Peter his brother that bides at home His true-love’s troth would win.

“Dost sit at home, proud Adelus, And broider my brother’s gear? Ebbe he serves in the King’s own court, And scorns thee, nor holds thee dear!”

“Full well do I know him, Ebbe, And Ebbe his heart knows he; And scorns he never a maiden proud The less hath he scorn for me!”

“Now lithe and listen, proud Adelus, And be my plighted maid! For true I tell thee the tidings That Ebbe my brother is dead.”

All on the self-same evening They drank to the plighted pair; All on the Monday after To bridal-feast they fare.

It was Ebbe Skammelson At midnight did awake, And he up and called to the nearest swain And of his dream he spake.

“Methought that my stone-built tower Stood all in a leaping lowe, And Peter my brother burned therein, And my fair love alsò.”

“And didst thou dream thy tower of stone Stood all in a lowe so red, Then know, that Peter thy brother Thine own fair love doth wed.”

It was Ebbe Skammelson That girt his sword by his side, And leave he won, Sir Ebbe, Homeward in haste to ride.

It was Ebbe Skammelson That paused not on his way; He came to his father’s castle All on the bridal-day.

Forth they come, his sisters twain, With bracelets on either hand: “Now welcome, Ebbe our brother, Home to thy father’s land!”

“Now lithe and listen, my sisters twain, And look that ye do not lie! Say wherefore are gathering hither This goodly companie?”

Up spake his youngest sister, For needs must the words be said: “Lo! ’tis Peter thy brother Thine own true-love doth wed!”

To one he has given a brooch for her breast, To the other a ring for her hand: “Oh, I brought them both to my own true-love Out of the strangers’ land!”

The one she has bidden him bide at home, The other has bidden him go: “For dost thou tarry here o’er this night Be sure it will work us woe!”

Ebbe he turned his horse’s head Forth from the hold to ride, But his mother she seized the bridal-rein And begged him at home to bide.

His mother all to the highest place Hath brought him cushion and chair, His father hath brought him a cup of wine To pledge the bridal-pair.

He pledged them in the mead so brown And in the red, red wine, But when he looked upon the bride The tears ran from his eyne.

Now when the dew was falling And even was well-nigh sped, Up she rose, the beauteous bride, To seek the bridal-bed.

They followed her, the beauteous bride, All to her chamber door; Foremost went Ebbe Skammelson To hold the torch before.

All to the door of the upper room Ebbe the bride led he: “Hast thou forgot, proud Adelus, The troth thou didst plight to me?”

“All the troth I plighted thee Is given to Peter thy brother; But each and every day I live I’ll be to thee e’en as a mother!”

“I wooed thee not for my mother, I wooed thee for my wife! For this shall Peter Skammelson Yield up to me his life!

“Lithe and listen, proud Adelus, And fly from the land with me! Peter my brother I’ll slay eftsoon, And bear the blame for thee.”

“And wilt thou slay Peter thy brother eftsoon I never will be thy wage! And thou shalt sorrow thyself to death Like a wild bird in a cage.”

It was Ebbe Skammelson That drew his brand so brown; It was haughty Adelus That he to earth struck down.

Oh, he has hidden the bloody brand Beneath his cloak of pall; He’s sought his brother Sir Peter That sat in the stone-built hall.

“Now harken, Peter Skammelson, A laggard art thou to wed! The bride is longing after thee All in the bridal-bed.”

It was Peter his brother Spake up with mickle spite: “I give thee leave with right good-will To sleep by the bride to-night!”

It was Ebbe Skammelson That drew his brand so brown; It was Peter his brother That he to earth struck down.

Oh, he has wounded his father sore, And struck off his mother’s hand; And so must he roam, Ebbe Skammelson, The wild ways of the land! —Therefore roams Ebbe Skammelson so many a lonely way.

XII, XIII

OH, SEVENTY-SEVEN TWICE-TOLD WERE THEY

HOLGER DANSKE AND STOUT DIDRIK

These Ballads are two of a large group celebrating popular legendary heroes. Those concerned with Didrik—all jovial ones with happy endings—were adapted or translated from the work of the wandering German minstrels known as the “Saxon Singers,” who visited Denmark during the time of Knud Lavard and Sven Grade (1131-57). Part of this poetry, moreover, apparently trickled into Scandinavia by circuitous routes, since a lengthy “Didrikssaga” was composed during the thirteenth century at Bergen.

There are those who consider Didrik as a mere Mrs. Harris, and derive his name from the vague appellation þioðreke = folk-king. But most authorities believe that he had a flesh-and-blood original in Theoderic, King of the East Goths, and conqueror of Italy, whose royal seat was at “Bern,” _i. e._ Verona. Be that as it may, this kingly shade enlisted his champions among the most august phantoms of the North. Sivord Snarensvend, for example, is no less a personage than Sigurd Fafnirsbane; while Helled Haagen is Hogne the Hero, Sigurd’s slayer. Raadengaard may (or may not) be the Hrothgar of “Beowulf,” and the “Sir Aldingar” of British ballad. Most of the other figures may be pursued through the mazes of legend; but Falkvor the Fiddler is a creation of the “fiddling” minstrel’s; and he or his translator inserted Tetlev Danske as a compliment to the Danes.

As for Holger Danske, he is the French hero Ogier le Danois, originally one of Charlemagne’s champions, who fought for Christendom against the infidel. The oldest Danish ballad of Holger describes his victory over Burmand, an amorous Troll, who would fain carry off the Lady Gloriant, the King of Hungary’s daughter, from her rightful lover King Karvel. This chivalrous deed of Holger’s captivated the popular fancy, which adopted him henceforth as national hero, crowned him with the “red, red gold” and pictured him as defending Denmark against the power of the German Empire, personified in the giants Sverting and Bermer-Ris. “Holger Danske and Stout Didrik may,” says Olrik, “be considered Denmark’s first patriotic song.”

Verses 4 and 5 find a parallel in “The Battle of Otterburn” (English version).

“Up spake a berne upon the bent Of comfort that was not cold, And said: We have brente Northumberland, We have all wealth in hold.

“Now we have harried all Bambroughshire, All the wealth in the world have we; I rede we ride to Newcastle So still and stalworthlie!”

XII

OH, SEVENTY-SEVEN TWICE-TOLD WERE THEY

Oh, seventy-seven twice-told were they When out from Hald they went, And when they came to Brattingsborg They pitched the silken tent. —There sounds thunder the captains under, when they ride forth.

King Isung stands on high watch-tower, And looks forth far and wide: “Oh, little care for their lives have they That hither list to ride!

“Now harken, Sivord Snarensvend, Hast wandered here and there; Tell me what warriors are they These golden shields that bear?”

“There shineth on the foremost shield A lion all so bold; The bearing of Didrik the King it is, With a crown of ruddy gold.

“And shining on the second shield Hammer and tongs appear; The sign of Vidrik Verlandson That takes no prisoner.

“And on the third shield shining see A golden serpent, bound; That beareth Master Hildebrand, Cunning in counsel found.

“And on the fourth shield, see where shines A leafy linden-tree; That beareth youthful Humlunger, Earl Hornbook’s son is he.

“There shineth on the following shield A wolf in a wild wood, The sign of Ulv van Jærn the young Who is a warrior good.

“And on the sixth there shineth still A vulture red as gold; And that bears Helled Haagen Who is a champion bold.

“And see, the seventh shining shield Fiddle and bow doth keep, The sign of Falkvor Minstrel-Man Would liefer drink than sleep.

“And on the eighth an elephant Is pictured with a swain, The sign of Tetlev Danske That swings his sword amain.

“All on the ninth shield shining, lo A swarthy vulture shows, The sign of young Sir Raadengaard Full many a rune who knows.

“And on the tenth shield, lo there shine Two arrows wan and white, He bears them, Hvitting Hermandson, Is foremost still in fight.

“There shines on the eleventh shield Nought but a burning brand; That bears Sir Brand Vidfærling Against all lordling’s land.

“And on the twelfth shield shining, see, There stands a cowl so grey; That bears the monk, Brother Alsing, Would follow fain the fray!”

“Now harken, Sivord Snarensvend, Thou art a warrior free! Shalt fight with one of Didrik’s men For all my land and me!”

Up stood Sivord Snarensvend, And to the tents he hied: “Now is there ever a warrior stout A joust with me will ride?”

Oh, on the board they cast the dice That fell both far and wide, And the lot it was young Humlunger’s With Sivord there to ride.

It was he, young Humlunger, Did forth to Vidrik speed: “Now I will give thee a pledge to hold Wilt lend me Skemming thy steed.”

“Oh, Sivord sees not the point of his spear, Because his sight is dim, And if my Skemming to-day wins scathe Nor thou nor thy kinsfolk can pay for him!”

“But I, I have a sister Is fairer than maidens all; And if thy Skemming wins scathe to-day I’ll pay it her hand withal.”

“Oh, nought of Skemming thou’lt see to-day Unless thy surety firm doth stand; The hand I’ll have of thy sister fair, And seven castles in Birtingsland!”

“Seven castles in Birtingsland Thy surety they shall be; Thereto the maid my sister, A pledge of price for thee!”

Oh, he has backed that steed so bold, And gaily ridden away; Good sooth, but Skemming thought it strange To feel the spur that day!

The gold did shine upon his shield Like the sun in summer-tide: “God help me now, a simple swain, The brunt to bear and bide!”

The first course that they ran together Would neither champion yield; And both their shields were shattered there, And hurled so far afield.

“Methinks thou art a fair young swain, That well can run and ride! Go now and take thy shield again, And I the brunt will bide.”

And when they ran the second course, Then one of them must yield; Young Humlunger was stricken, And hurled so far afield.

“Oh, I have struck thee down to earth, And wounded thy steed alsò; Now whence thou comest, thou fair young swain, Full fain am I to know.”

“Oh, Hornbook hight my father, In Birtingsland is lord, And I am called young Humlunger Whenas I ride abroad.”

“Full well I know thy father, For comrades kind we were; Now take thy shield and mount again, Son of my sister dear!

“And take thou up my shattered shield, Bind me to oaken tree; Then ride and tell the champions The game is won by thee!”

Forth to the tents fared Humlunger, Cast blade upon the board: “Now have I bound the grey-beard carle That spake the vaunting word!”

“Now hold thy peace, young Humlunger, That aye must prate thy fill! If thou hast bound him, Sivord, ’Tis with his own good-will!”

Up stood Vidrik Verlandson, Bade saddle his steed so free: “I will fare forth to the forest, This conquered carle to see!”

Oh, Sivord all in the greenwood Saw where the knight did ride; Up by the roots he reft the oak, For he might not his bonds abide.

Up by the roots he reft the oak, For he might not his bonds abide: “If Vidrik Verlandson comes here My ribs he’ll hew from my side!”

The Queen stood in the lofty bower, And looked both up and down: “Oh, hither comes Sivord Snarensvend A-bearing summer to town!”

The Queen looked out with her ladies All from the lofty bower: “Sivord hath been in good greenwood And gathered a gallant flower!”

Gay went the dance at Brattingsborg, Where champions danced amain; There danced with oak-tree in his belt Sivord the purblind swain! —There sounds thunder the captains under, when they ride forth.

XIII

HOLGER DANSKE AND STOUT DIDRIK

Stout Didrik dwells in Berneland With brethren eight all told, And each of them twelve sons hath got, All doughty knights and bold. —But the battle is raging northward up in Jutland.

Stout Didrik dwells in Berneland With fifteen sisters bright, And each of them hath twelve fair sons That hold their lives full light.

And when they rode out all by Bern, A goodly companie, Sooth to say, each warrior Was tall as a beechen tree.

“Now we have fought o’er all the world And conquered far and wide, And we have heard of Holger Dansk That doth in Denmark bide.

“We have heard tell of Holger Dansk, In Jutland doth abide, And he is crowned with the red, red gold. And ne’er will bate his pride.”

Oh, Sverting seized a pike of steel, And spake up loud and high: “A hundred of Holger Danske’s men I count them not a fly!”

“Oh, harken, Sverting, thou swarthy swain, Or ever thou rue the day! We ha’ heard of Holger Danske’s men, And bold young blades are they!”

Up and spake tall Bermer-Ris, And a vaunting word spake he: “Oh, we will fare to Denmark, And try if the King will flee!”

Now all with eighteen thousand steeds From Berneland they fare, And they’ve drawn up to Denmark To see King Holger there.

Stout Didrik hath sent a messenger And bidden King Holger yield, To pay him scot and lot for aye, Or meet him in the field.

Up spake Vidrik Verlandson, He spake a word so stout: “And come they in to Denmark thus, They shall not thus go out!”

Oh, they have met, a mighty host, All on the darksome heath; And that was a woeful trysting-place Where warriors fought till death.

They’ve fought for a day, for three they’ve fought, And stiff in stower they stand; Holger the King and his mighty men Slew many from Berneland.

Oh, mild of mood was Bermer-Ris, And softly spake he then: “Now how shall we conquer Holger Dansk With scarce a hundred men?”

It was doughty Didrik Looked upward to the sky: “No help is here for us, I ween, ’Tis time to turn and fly!”

Stout Didrik took to both his legs, To fly o’er hill and dale, And Sverting went the self-same way For all his boastful tale.

Up spake little Iron-Wolf, That held the hill beside: “Oh, they that are come to fight the Danes Have little praise or pride!”

When they rode out of Berneland They were eighteen thousand men; ’Twas scarce a tithe of all that host That won back home again.

Oh, stern the stream of red, red blood Ran o’er land and lea! The reek of it rose up to heaven Till the sun was bloody and red to see. —But the battle is raging northward up in Jutland.

BALLADS OF MAGIC

XIV

YOUNG SVEJDAL

A certain number of Ballads borrowed their subjects from the Old Norse Lays, making of them, not translations, but fresh creations; for the Lays tower above the many-coloured ballad-world like ice-peaks that loom over flowery meads. The story of Young Svejdal is derived from two Lays dealing with the adventures of Svipdag, who wakes Menglad from her trance on the magic mountain; but

“there is a vast difference between the simplicity of the Ballad and the stately measure and rhetorical pomp of the original:—

‘Svipdag is my name; Sunbright was my father’s name; The winds have driven me far, along cold ways; No one can gainsay the word of Fate, Though it be spoken to his own destruction.’

“The difference is as great as the difference between the ballad of the ‘Marriage of Gawayne’ and the same story as told in the _Canterbury Tales_; or the difference between Homer’s way of describing the recovery of lifted cattle and the ballad of ‘Jannie Telfer of the Fair Dodhead’” (W. P. Ker’s _Epic and Romance_, chap. ii., section 3).

This Ballad, indeed, brings down the story from the misty peaks of Valhalla into the garrulous region of fairy-tale. It is faithful to the primitive tradition which depicts the dead as waking unwillingly from their slumbers. Svejdal’s mother speaks as does the dead Vala in the nameless Lay called “Baldr’s Doom” by the editors of the _Corpus Poeticum Boreale_:

“Hvat es manna þat mer okunnra es mer hefir aukit ervitt sinni? Vas-ek snivin sniovi ok slegin regni, ok drifin doeggo; dauð vas-ek lengi.”

(Who is the man unknown to me that has put me to this weary journey? I was snowed on with snow, and smitten with rain, and dripped on with dew; dead was I lang syne.)

The refrain is:

“Nauðig sagðak. Nú mun-ek þegja!”

(Loath have I spoken. Now must I be silent!) Gray, in his translation, “The Descent of Odin,” puts it with eighteenth-century elegance:

“Again my wearied eyes I close, Leave me, leave me to repose!”

and readers of _Mansfield Park_ will remember how fitly these words are applied to the languid speech of Lady Bertram. A “clever fancy” on the part of the Norns, to spin this slender thread connecting Jane Austen (of all people!) with the “Runick savages boozing ale!” Had she known more of them, she would doubtless have agreed with Frederick the Great, that all their works were not worth a charge of powder, and that she would have no such stuff in her library.

XIV

YOUNG SVEJDAL