ROMANTIC BALLADS,
TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH;
AND
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES;

by

George Borrow.

Understood. Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.

Understood. Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.

NORWICH:
printed and published by Jarrold and Sons.
1913

Table of Contents.

Introduction

Lines from Allan Cunningham to George Borrow

The Death Raven. From the Danish of Oehlenslæger

Fridleif and Helga. From the Danish of Oehlenslæger

Sir Middel. From the Old Danish

Elvir-shades. From the Danish of Oehlenslæger

The Heddybee-spectre. From the Old Danish

Sir John. From the Old Danish

May Asda. From the Danish of Oehlenslæger

Aager and Eliza. From the Old Danish

Saint Oluf. From the Old Danish

The Heroes of Dovrefeld. From the Old Danish

Svend Vonved. From the Old Danish

The Tournament. From the Old Danish

Vidrik Verlandson. From the Old Danish

Elvir Hill. From the Old Danish

Waldemar's Run

The Merman. From the Old Danish

The Deceived Merman. From the Old Danish

Various Topics.

Cantata

The Hailstorm. From the Norse

The Elder Witch

Ode. From the Gaelic

Bear song. From the Danish of Evald

National song. From the Danish of Evald

The Old Oak Tree

Lines to 6'3"

Nature’s Temperaments. From the Danish of Oehlenslæger

The Violet-gatherer. From the Danish of Oehlenslæger

Ode to a Mountain Torrent. From the German of Stolberg

Runic Poems

Thoughts on Death. From the Swedish of C. Lohman

Birds of Passage. From the Swedish

The Broken Lyre

Scenes

The Suicide's Grave. From the German

The ballads in this volume are translated from the works of Oehlenslæger, (a poet who is still alive and is greatly respected by his fellow countrymen), and from the Kiæmpé Viser, a collection of old songs that celebrate the deeds of the ancient heroes of Scandinavia.

The old Danish poets were mostly really rough in their writing. Their stanzas of four or two lines don’t have the full rhyme of vowel and consonant; they just have what the Spaniards call “assonante,” or vowel rhyme. It doesn’t seem like much attention was paid to the number of feet in the lines. But, even though their poetry might lack harmony in structure, it vividly describes scenes of grand, raw beauty that we don’t see anymore. While the modern muse may try to imagine these scenes, she often struggles to portray them because she's so focused on being smooth and musical, forgetting that smoothness and musicality often come off as bland and meaningless.

I plan to soon present a full translation of the Kampé Viser, which I completed a few years ago; I hope the examples provided here will give a positive impression.

It was originally my plan to publish, among the “Miscellaneous Pieces,” several translations from the Gælic, once the language of the western world; the noble tongue

but I have kept them, with one exception, until I have enough to make a complete book.

When he suggested translating the ‘Kiæpé Viser.’

Sing, sing, my friend; bring life back again
Through Norway’s song and Denmark’s sound:
On the flowing Thames and Forth, in flood,
Pour Haco’s war song, fierce and loud.
Over England’s strength, through Scotland’s cold,
His warrior minstrels marched long ago—
Called on the wolf and birds of prey
To feast on Ireland’s shore and bay;
And France, your brave knights so bold,
Rough Rollo’s ravens croaked them cold.
Sing, sing of the rulers of earth and sea,
Their songs as conquering as their swords;
Tunes soaked in many strange beliefs,
Now hard as steel, now soft as grief—
Wild, enchanting, warlike, brief, sublime,
Marked with the image of their time;
When agitated—the call is sharp and high
For bloodshed, like the eagles cry;
When pleased—the mood is gentle and mild,
And sweet, like an unweaned child.
Sing, sing of haunted shores and depths,
St. Oluf and his spiteful elves,
Of that wise woman, in true love’s need,
Who shaped the horse from the clear stream—
How youthful Svend, in deep sorrow,
Ripped inspired strings from his harp;
And Sivard, in his felt cloak,
Danced with the green oak at his belt—
Or sing of the Sorceress of the woods,
The charming Merman of the waters—
Or elves that, over the unfathomable stream,
Play like motes in the morning light—
Or let me sail from Iceland Isle,
With Rosmer and fair Ellenlyle,
When the blood crow’s flight went south,
Carrying a man's leg in its mouth.
Though rough and loud, those tunes are full
Of things connected to immortal life,
Which touch the heart and stain the cheek,
As deeply as the finest Greek.
In simple words and sincere rhyme,
Give me the songs of ancient times.

The silky sail, catching the summer breeze,
Propelled the light boat through the blue seas;
On the high deck, Lady Sigrid lay,
Watching the sun set at the end of the day:
Then suddenly, the bright sky turned dark,
The waves roared, and the boat began to sink;
The wild raven of death, perched on the mast,
Screamed in the chaos, stirring up the storm.

Dame Sigrid saw the demon bird up high,
And tears filled her beautiful eye;
Her cheeks, which had just bloomed like rosy flowers,
Now took on a pale hue of fear in those hours:
“O wild death-raven, calm your terrifying rage,
And don't battle with one who can’t engage.
Calm those waves, make them stop their roar,
And I will give you pounds of gold in store.”

“With gold, you can't expect to pay the brave,
For gold won’t calm a single wave,
For gold won’t quiet the stormy air,
And yet my heart is moved by your despair;
Give me the treasure hidden beneath your belt,
And right away those clouds will turn into harmless rain,
And I’ll come crashing down, with my claws of steel,
On the merman clinging to your keel.”

“What I hid under my belt is yours—irrevocably yours, I swear. You turned down a great and noble prize to get my closet key. Look! Here it is, and when it’s in your grasp, May you find a lot of comfort from this treasure!” She threw the polished steel onto the deck, And the raven fluttered away from the mast.

Then he dove straight down into the sea,
And split the merman’s terrifying head in two;
He calmed the foamy waves,
And tamed the storm with the speed of his mind;
Then, with a cry that sounded like a demon,
He flew up high and disappeared into the sky:
A gentle wind pushed the ship toward the shore,
And soon Dame Sigrid reached the desired beach.

Once, late in the evening, she played her harp,
Right by the lake where the carp swam slowly;
And as the moonlight shone down upon her,
She thought of Norway and its lonely pine woods.
“I still love Denmark,” she said, “and the Danes,
Because my strong husband, Alf, rules over them.”
Then something beneath her waist moved and yearned,
And all her joy turned into fear.

“Ah! now I understand what you mean, cruel bird . . . ”
She sat for a long time, not speaking or moving.
Faintly, through the mist that covered the sky in gray,
The pale stars twinkled from the Milky Way.
“Ah! now I understand what you mean, cruel bird . . . ”
She tried in vain to say another word.
Above her head, the aspen shook its leaves—
Wet like her cheek, and pale like her face.

Full five months passed, before she, amid the night and darkness,
Brought forth an infant from her womb with pain:
They baptized him at the murky hour of midnight,
So he wouldn’t fall under the demon’s power.
It was a boy, more beautiful than the morning,
Yet Sigrid’s heart was torn with bitter worry.
Deep in a grotto, where a stream flowed,
With crystal drops, they sprinkled Harrald’s brow.

He grew and grew, until on Danish land
No young man could compete with him;
He was both graceful and strong—
His gaze was fierce, and his words were melodic.
Even as a child, he tamed the battle horse,
And only dreamed of war and daring acts;
But Queen Sigrid harbored fearful visions,
And whenever she looked at him, she was always in tears.

One late evening, she lay on her bed,
(King Alf, her noble husband, had been dead for a while)
She felt so weak, and her aching chest
Was weighed down with more sorrow than usual.
Then she heard a sudden sound that sent a chill
Through her entire body, and life’s warmth
Froze:—
The bird of death had flown in through the window,
And screamed at her in a terrifying voice:

“The rich bird flew down,
Came swooping,
Over hill and stream.
‘Look here, look here, you poor bird,
How brightly my feathers shine.’

“The needy bird came fluttering,
Came muttering,
And sadly sang,
‘Look here, look here, you wealthy bird,
How loose my feathers hang.’

“Remember, Queen, the stormy day,
When cast away
You were so close:—
You were the needy bird that day,
And to me you cried.

“Death is now looming,
Coming in a dark cloud,
Over hill and stream;
But when will you, Lady Sigrid fair,
Fulfill your promise?”

A hollow moan escaped Sigrid’s chest,
While he looked at her with his fiery gaze:
“Get away,” she said; “demon monster, leave me!
My simple prayer will protect my son.”
She crossed herself, and then the fiend took off;
But first, he mockingly danced around,
And sang, “No prayer will save him from my rage;
I’ll quench my thirst with Christian blood.”

Young Harrald grabbed his red cap and shouted,
“I’ll find out the sorrow my mother wants to hide;”
Then, bursting into her room,
“O mother,” he said, “why are you sitting there,
Away from your family in the dead of night,
With silent lips and cheeks so pale?
Tell me what’s weighing so heavily on your heart;
When shared, grief loses half its sting.”

“O Harrald,” she sighed, giving in to his plea,
“Creatures are everywhere on land and in the sky,
Fueled by their evil and burning with anger,
They battle against those who choose the path of righteousness.
One of those monsters is lurking for you,
Equipped with a promise he forced from me:
His bloodshot eyes glare from deep sockets,
And every night he emerges from his dark lair.”

“He was like a god in the past;
Kings worshipped him, and minstrels sang his praises;
But when Christ’s teachings spread through the dark North,
His, and all evil spirits’ power was subdued.
Now he’s just a raven, but still
Strong enough to impose his will on you:
The unfortunate soul who falls under his control—
He screams in vain, calls out for mercy in vain.”

She whispered to him then, with pale lips,
What had happened to her on the ship;
But young Harrald listened without fear,
And simply gripped the handle of his sword.
“My son,” she murmured, when her story was told,
“Fear makes me weak, but you look cheerful and brave.”
The young man then lifted his bright eyes,
And said, while gazing at the moonlit sky,

“Once, my dear mom, at the end of the day,
I lay among the tall flowers in the grove,
Softly sang the finches from a thousand trees,
And, gently lulled, I drifted off to sleep.
Then, it seemed to me, heaven’s curtain was drawn back,
And, dressed in colors that light up the morning,
An angel slowly descended to the earth,
Which seemed to welcome him with a joyful smile.

“He raised his hand and told me to focus my gaze
On a chain that hung from the sky,
Embracing the world; stretching high and low,
It clinked, as it moved, with notes of joy and woe:
The links that came into view were often stained
With what seemed like human blood;
Made of various metals, it clasped the shape,—
Steel clung to silver, iron clung to gold.

“Then the angel said, with a grand presence,—
‘The chain of destiny you see there.
Accept whatever it gives, and don’t complain;
For harsh necessity has determined each fate.’
He disappeared—I woke up suddenly,
But that strange dream was etched in my heart.
I go wherever fate chooses to lead me,—
Without God’s permission, not even a fly can land on the ground.”

It thunders—and from the murky clouds at midnight,
Comes loud peal after loud peal:
The foamy waves crash, roaring heavily,
Throwing a Scottish ship onto the white shore.
Straight to the royal palace hurry then
A beautiful girl and thirty weathered men.
Minona, Scotland’s princess, Scotland’s pride,
The storm has pushed her to the Danish coast.

Often, while the train cuts timber in the woods,
Minona, arm in arm, wanders with Harrald.
Warm from his lips, words of passion flow;
Pure in her eyes, the flames of passion glow.
One summer evening, on a mossy bank,
Mouth to mouth, and chest to chest, they sank:
The moon quickly rose to witness their love,
And wild birds sang from the branches above.

But now the ship, which lately seemed like a wreck,
Floats with a mast confidently on her deck.
Minona kisses Harrald’s radiant face,
While he walks her to the place they’ll part ways.
His brave young heart pounds hard against his side—
She sailed away—and, like someone frozen,
He stood on the shore for a long time, watching
The smooth hull gliding through the blue waters.

Months go by, and Sigrid’s sadness fades;
She no longer fears the wild death raven's power;
A soft blush returns to her cheek,
And her eyes are no longer stained with tears.
“My Harrald stands tall and strong;
Dark bird of doom, I rejoice at last;
If your cursed claw could hurt my brave son,
This deed would have been done a long time ago.”

But Harrald looked so gloomy and sad,
And so he spoke to his mother one morning:
“Minona’s face is matched by her intelligence;
I think she’s calling me from her windy hills?
Get me a ship with men and gold when needed,
And let me hurry to her father's kingdom;
I’ll be back soon, and across the sea
I’ll bring you a daughter, and I’ll have a bride.”

Dame Sigrid promised him an answer soon,
And went that night, when the moon was up,
Deep into the dark woods,
To where old Bruno’s sheltered cabin stood.
She entered—there he sat behind his table,
His wool sweater held up by a cord;
The small lamp, hanging from above,
Shined on the Bible pages spread before him.

“Hail to you, Father!—man of great age,
Your Queen seeks your wise counsel.
Young Harrald is going to a faraway land,
And I would love to know what awaits him:
You understand the stars—oh, do they suggest
That he will meet an untimely end?
Relieve his mother’s heart of this one last worry,
And she will always remember you in her prayers.”

The hermit, getting up from his quiet corner,
With his head bare and a calm expression,
Stepped outside and stared closely at the sky,
Whose lights looked like letters to his old eyes.
“The stars,” he said, “are standing in friendly ranks,
But one alone flickers like a blazing brand:—
Your Harrald, dear Queen, will not be killed
On the Earth, nor yet on the Main.”

While the seer spoke prophetically,
A wave of joy washed over Sigrid’s face:
“He won’t be killed on the ocean or on land,”
She said, and kissed the hermit’s wrinkled hand;
“Then I’m happy, and my son is free
To sail his ship and ride across the sea:
He will sit as king upon the grey stone,
When my bones are resting in the grave.”

The colorful boat is now floating in the creek—
Flags on her mast, and decorations on her bow;
The sail is raised high on the yardarm,
Half open, it flutters in the evening breeze.
The night before he leaves, young Harrald wandered
Into the woods where he first saw his girl:
Restless impatience fired up all his blood,
He wished for wings to carry him over the water.

Then the wind sighed through the overgrown areas,
In the distance, the sound of hounds howled:
The fireflies, emerging from the reeds and grass,
Hung in the mist over the swamp.
A wild-looking old woman approached him,
Carrying a tightly folded feathered cloak:
She smiled at him with her pale cheeks,
Gave him the robe, and she was already gone.

Young Harrald, although surprised, feels no fear;
He lifts the amazing garment in his hand:
It was made of stunning, beautiful feathers,
Once worn by the roc and the ostrich.
He really wants to cover himself with it,
And move as quickly as a storm:
He puts it on, then heads to the open field,—
Takes a short flight, and flutters back again.

“Courage!” he shouted, “I won't stay any longer;
Scotland will see me before dawn breaks.”
Then like a dragon in the sky, he soars,
Startled from sleep, as it roars in his wake.
His wings take flight across the ocean;
Forests, cities, and hills have disappeared from his view—
Look! there he goes, a lone rider in the sky,
Miles below him, the dark waves lie.

He hears applause in the midnight wind:
Hurry, Harrald, hurry! The raven is closing in.
Flames flicker from his dark, rolling eye:
“Ha! Harrald,” he screamed, “have we finally met?”
For the first time, the young man felt real fear;
His face went pale, like a cold corpse,
His blood ran cold, his trembling arm grew weak,
As he stammered out his quiet plea:

“I see it’s pointless to fight against fate;
Thank God, my soul is way above your hate;
But, before you destroy my mortal body,
Let me enjoy one moment of sweet bliss:
The beautiful and unmatched Minona is my love,
I came here for her, like a fool:
Let me fly to her with my last goodbye,
And I am yours before morning covers the hill.”

Firmly the raven held him in the air,
Surveyed his prize with a fiercely wild glare:
“Now is the time to satisfy my desire;
But you will admit that I am fair and just.”
Then from its socket, Harrald’s eye he ripped out,
And drank half of the hero’s blood:—
“Since I’ve noticed you, you’re free to go;
But don’t linger when you’re down below.”

Young Harrald sinks with many sobs and tears,
Down from the sky to nature’s lower sphere:
He rested a long time beneath the tall poplar,
Which grew up against the red church’s wall.
Then, slowly rising, he weakly staggered on,
Until he reached his Minona’s bower.
Trembling and sad, he stood beside the door—
Pale as a ghost, and covered in blood!

“Minona, come, before Harrald’s young heart
Is broken by love and its complicated pain.
Soon his figure will vanish from this earth,
But we’ll meet again in heaven’s joyful halls:
Minona, come and give me one embrace,
So I can find my way back at once.”
Thus he sings in passion’s most intense note,
While death looms closer with each passing moment.

Minona came: “Oh my God!” she cried,
“My Harrald’s ghost has crossed the tide;
Red clots of blood streak his blond hair,
And drops of the same are running down his cheek.”
“Minona, love, look at me up close,
It’s not a shadow that’s here with you;
Put your warm hand on my heart and see
If it beats for you with less strength.”

At once she stopped the flow of her tears,
His arm held her up, or she would have collapsed;
The color drained from her face,
And her dark hair turned gray.
All he had endured, and what he still had to face,
He whispered to her while she shook there:
The hero then, with fading passion, pressed,
For the last time, his chest against hers.

“Goodbye! Minona, all my fears are gone,
And if I feel sad, it’s just for you:
Give me a kiss, and give me a smile,
And let not tears from our goodbye spoil this moment.
Now I will drink the bitter cup of death,
And bravely give up my last breath:—
Goodbye! may heaven watch over you,”
He said, and quickly took to the skies.

She stared; but he had disappeared from her sight;
She stood abandoned in the damp and dew,
Then dark emotions flickered in her eye,
And this is how she prayed, with hands raised high:
“You who were vainly tempted in the wilderness,
You who were always kindly and gentle,
You who helped Peter walk on blue waves,
Help me to pursue my Harrald.”

The morning star had already set,
The sound of nightingales could be heard from afar,
The red sun peeked over the mountain’s edge,
And flowers filled the valley below with their scent.
A young maiden approached, dressed in bright clothes,
Carrying a feather vest on her back;
She lovingly kissed Minona’s pale features,
Gave her the robe, and then quickly disappeared.

And quickly Minona dresses her limbs,
And soars upward through the sky:
To moan and cry, her troubled heart rejects,
Its pains are too great for such simple comfort.
The birds that encounter her in those open fields,
She cuts to pieces with an axe she holds;
Each clanging wing she endlessly strikes,
But cannot catch the raven or his prize.

She hears a distant scream in the air below,
And, as quickly as an eagle attacks its prey,
Down, down, she fell and landed on the shore,
Which was soaked far and wide with Harrald’s blood.
She smiled sadly, but remained silent—
His good right hand was lying at her feet:
That symbol of truth, in love’s bright daylight,
Was the only remnant of the monster’s victim.

Deep in her chest, she hid the bloody hand,
And said goodbye, forever, to the land:
Once more she rushed through the open air,
Her eyes wild with furious rage:
Finally, she spotted the raven sorcerer,
And soon her blade was soaked in his hot blood:
The massive black body, piece by piece, found a grave
In the depths of the salty waves.

The ocean waves no longer crash and foam,
But gently rush toward the pebbled shore,
Where linden trees stand in clusters,
With leafy branches that hang over the water.
A single cloud floats in the blue,
Right where the pale moon reveals her face again:
It is Minona, dying there as she ascends,—
She doesn’t sink!—no—she rises to the skies.

The trees were full of leaves, providing a nice shade;
Helga, the beautiful girl, walked among them.

The water is rushing over those little stones;
She sat down next to it and rested her body.

She sat down, and soon, from a nearby bush,
Sir Fridleif approached her with a sword and a spear:

“Ah, feel sorry for me, Helga, and don’t abandon me now,
I exist, only exist, on the smile of your face:

“In your father's entire garden, there's not a
rose that shines as brightly as you and blooms as beautifully.”

“Sir Fridleif, your words are just meant to deceive,
But tell me, what brings you here so late in the evening?”

“I can’t find rest, and I can’t find peace,
Though the linnets sing sweetly among the wild trees;

"If you just promise to be mine one day,
I won’t suffer anymore, I won’t long for you anymore."

She fell into his arms, and her cheeks were as red
As the sun when it sets in its watery bed;

But soon she got up from his loving embrace;
He walked beside her through the woods for a while.

“Now listen, young Fridleif, the brave and daring,
Take off this red gold ring from my finger,

Take this red gold ring off my finger,
And don’t part with it until you're cold in death.”

Sir Fridleif stood there in a sad situation,
Salt tears filled his eyes, blurring his vision.

“Go home, and I’ll quickly go to your father,
And claim you from him, on my powerful gray horse.”

Sir Fridleif rode through the thick forest at night,
Eager to reach his beloved's home;

His armor was clanking, his helmet shimmered bright,
His horse was so fast, and he was so eager:

He reached the proud castle and jumped to the ground,
He tied his horse to the branch of a linden tree;

He put on his grey otter skin cloak,
And walked through the wide door, entering Sir Erik's room.

“Here you sit, Sir Erik, dressed in scarlet;
I’ve married your daughter, the beautiful girl.”

“And who are you, Rider? What have you accomplished?
No coward will ever be my son.”

“O so far have I traveled, my name is famous,
The heroes I defeated wherever I went:

“Han Elland, it’s true, long argued over the ground,
But he still received his fatal wound from my hand.”

Sir Erik then changed his expression completely,
And rushed out into the darkness of the night.

“Fill it up high, little Kirstin, my favorite cup,
And pour in the brown drink mixed with poison.”

She handed him the drink, and quickly returned,
“Hey, young man,” he said, “you need to try my old mead.”

Sir Fridleif unfastened his helmet and took a drink;
Sweat poured from his forehead—his expression went blank.

“I have never tasted, since the day I was born,
A more bitter drink, from a more expensive horn:

“My journey is finished, my life is summed up,
For I sense betrayal in the remnants of the cup.”

Sir Erik then said, while he stomped on the ground,
“Young knight, it's your fate to die like a hound.

“My dearest friend, you claimed to have killed,
And I have avenged him by giving you poison:

“Not Helga, but Hela, [1] will now be your bride;
Her cheeks are dark blue, and she looks cold and unfeeling.”

“Sir Erik, your words are both clever and wise,
And hell, when it gets you, will have a great catch!

“Give Helga her bright red gold ring;
Make sure to tell her when Fridleif is dead;

“But fire will turn into water, and marble will bleed,
Before you succeed with this deceitful act:

“And I will not die like a dog, on the ground,
But go, like a hero, to Odin and Thor.”

He cut himself three times with his sharp glaive,
And went to Valhalla, [2] the path of the brave.

The knight called his daughter into the room:
“Come here, my dear child, to see your happy bridegroom.”

She looked at the body and jumped back in shock;
“O dad, why did you have such a cruel heart?”

She moaned and complained, she raved and she cursed;
She looked at her love until her very eyes burst.

At midnight, Sir Erik stood there silent,
With two pale corpses beside his cold foot:

He stood rigid and motionless; and when the morning light arrived,
He stood, like a pole, devoid of any life.

The young man and the girl were buried together,
Sir Erik couldn’t be moved from his position:

He stood there, stiff as a board, for thirty long days,
And stared at the earth with a frozen look.

It is said that on the night of the thirtieth long day,
He crumbled to dust and ashes.

So tightly was Swanelil lacing her vest,
That milk spilled out from each lily-white breast;
The Queen-mother saw it and asked her this:
“What makes the milk from your bosom run like this?”
“Oh, this isn’t milk, dear mother, I swear;
It’s just the mead I was drinking over there.”
“Ha! No way, my dear! These eyes aren’t blind;
Would you really claim mead is white?”
“Well, well, since the evidence is so clear,
I admit that Sir Middel has wronged me here.”
“And was he the culprit? He’ll surely pay,
For the shadow he’s cast on our honor's ray;
I’ll have him hanged; yes, I’ll hang him with scorn,
And burn you to ashes come the breaking of dawn.”
The maiden left, filled with sorrow and woe,
And headed straight to Sir Middel, you know;
Arriving at the door, she rang the bell,
“Now wake, my love, if you’re alive and well.”
Sir Middel heard her and jumped from his bed;
Not recognizing her voice, he said in dread,
“Go away! I have no candle or light,
And I swear no one will enter tonight!”
“Now hurry up, Sir Middel, in Christ’s holy name;
I’m fleeing from my mother, who knows of my shame;
She’ll have you hanged; yes, she will hang you with scorn,
And burn me to ashes at the break of dawn.”
“Ha! Don’t fear her threats, they’re empty and wild;
She won’t hang me, nor burn you, my child:
Gather your jewels and clothes, what’s dear,
And I’ll go to the stable and saddle my steed here.”
He gave her the cloak he had used when in need,
And he lifted her up onto the broad-bosomed steed.
They crossed through the forest and past the city,
When she cast her eyes to the heavens in pity.
“What troubles you, dear maid? We should stop for a while,
You look tired from the length of the mile.”
“I’m not tired from the distance we’ve come;
But the seat is too hard, truth be told, I’m numb.”
He laid his mantle on the cold ground so wide;
“Now rest, my love, and I’ll watch by your side.”
“Oh Jesus, I wish one of my maidens were near!
I fear the pains of a mother are here.”
“Your maidens are far, you’re alone in this place,
And it’s just you and me in this forest space.”
“It’d be better to perish, over and over again,
Than you should stand by me and see my pain.”
“Then take off your kerchief and cover my head,
And maybe I can stand in for the wise woman instead.”
“Oh Christ, if only I had a sip from the stream!
To quench my thirst and cool my brow it would seem.”
Sir Middel was tender and true to her need,
And he fetched her a drink in her gold-spangled shoe.
The fountain was far, but when he drew near,
Two nightingales sat there and sang in his ear:
“Your love, she is dead, and forever at rest,
With two little babies now cold on her breast.”
Such was their song; but he paid them no mind,
And traced his way back to the desolate find;
But oh, what a sight was revealed to his view!
For all they had said was tragically true.
He dug a deep grave beside a tree,
And buried the unfortunate three.
As he packed the earth tight with his iron-heeled boot,
He thought that the babies screamed under his foot:
Then placing his weapon against a grey stone,
He sank onto it, and died with a groan.
You maidens of Norway, from now on take care!
For love, when unruly, will lead to despair.

A steamy evening followed a hot day;
Dark purple streaks appeared in the sky,
And shadows partially hid the empty path;

I urged my horse on and rode faster,
In quiet solitude, through the green forests,
Where doves and finches made their home alone:

It was my destiny to finally find a brook,
Which, surrounded by fragrant bushes,
Challenged the heat and biting cold.

Inclined to rest and listen to the song of the wild birds,
I laid myself down on the soft edge of the brook,
And there I fell asleep and slumbered for a long time;

And I only woke, oh what a surprise, to see
A golden-haired girl, as pale as a snowdrop,
Her slim figure rising up from the ground:

Then fear overcame me, and this bold heart
Beat three times loudly against my armor;
I wanted to speak, but couldn't make a sound.

And look! another maid stood up and took
Some drops of water from the bubbling stream,
And looked at me with a longing gaze.

She said, “What brings you to this lonely place?
But don't worry, you won't meet any harm;
You, the armored warrior, full of youth and grace.”

“Not at all,” sang the other, in a joyful tone,
“But you will see wonders that have never
Been revealed to mankind’s unholy eye.”

The stream that just rushed through the trees
Stood still to listen to that song;
No green leaf moved, and the breeze felt trapped.

The thrush, jumping up in the far valley,
Shook its brown wing, decorated with golden streaks,
And mimicked the witch's tunes, as they rose and fell.

Brightly shone the lake's wide sheet of liquid blue,
Where, with the fierce pike, the trout played;
The rose opened its folded petals again,

And blushed, sprinkled with the night’s cold tear.
Once again the lily raised its head and smiled,
All pale white, like when it decorates the coffin.

Though she sang sweetly, my fears didn't fade,
For in her voice there was something untamed,
Which I can sense, it’s true, but can't put into words.

“Join us,” she sang, “deep beneath the earth,
Where the sun never shines, and stormy winds never roar;
Come with us to our halls of royal joy,

“There you shall learn from us the Runic song;
But first, dip yourself in that crystal water,
Which connects you to the Elfin race forever:

“Although there are plenty of painted flowers on the earth,
We have even more beautiful ones below;
Like grass, the chrysolites scatter across the ground.”

“O come,” the other siren exclaimed,
“For rubies there are redder than roses—
The sapphire’s blue puts the violet to shame.”

I lifted my eyes to the starry sky,
And grabbed my sword with intense determination,
Determined that no magic would overpower my mind.

My extended silence really annoyed the girls:
“Are you going to keep us here all night,
Or do we need to offer you something else?”

“Taught by us, you shall bind the rugged bear,—
Seize on the mighty dragon’s pile of gold,—
And slay the cockatrice while in her lair!

“But from your chest, we will draw out the blood,
Unless you join us beneath the ground!
Make your choice, make your choice, and don’t hesitate any longer!”

Cold sweat dripped from me, and as I tried to spin my shining sword with shaking hands,
It fell, caught by the strong grip of magic.

Each witch approached, holding her dagger high;
Just then a rooster, beyond the edge of the forest,
Crowed loudly—and they vanished into the ground.

I threw myself onto my scared horse,
Just as the shadows started to lighten,
And sunbeams dressed the sky in brighter colors.

Let every young warrior from those places take flight:
Sickness and death hide among the flowers;
And elves would drain the warm blood from his eye.

I climbed quickly onto my spotted horse,
And galloped far over mountain and meadow;
And when the day began to end,
I lay down to rest.

I lay down to rest,
And sweet slumber fell over me:
And then, I thought, as I slept,
From the ground, the dead man jumped up.

Said he, “If you're brave, Knight,
My murder will soon come to light;
For you'll ride to Heddybee,
Where my three young brothers live:

“And there, too, you will surely find
My dear father and kind mother;
And there sits Kate, my beloved wife,
Who, along with her women, took my life.

“They suffocated me while I was lying in bed,
Then wrapped me in a bundle of hay;
And took me out in the middle of the night,
And placed me here at this lonely spot.

“The Groom, who recently cleaned my stall,
Now struts and shows off through my hall,—
Eats cheerfully with my silver knife,
And sleeps with Kate, my beloved wife.

“His position is the highest at the table;
But what’s most lamentable,
He gives my children so little food,
And ridicules them now that their father is dead.

“Dressed in my clothes, he struts around
On the shady forest paths;
And, armed with a bow and hunting spear,
He hunts my birds and kills my deer.

“Were I alive, to meet him now,
All underneath the linden bough,
With no one nearby, my anger to hold back,
I’d twist his head right off his neck!

“But hurry over to Heddybee,
Where my three young brothers live;
First tell them everything—then stab the groom—
Give my wife a softer fate.”

Sir Lavé drifted to the island;
He married a beautiful girl there:
“I’ll have her yet,” said John.

He took her home across the main,
With knights and ladies in the group:
“I’m right behind,” said John.

They put her on the bridal seat;
Sir Lavé told them to drink and eat:
“Yeah, we will,” said John.

The servants took her to bed,
But couldn't unfasten her red girdle!
"I might be able to," said John.

He slammed the door shut;
He locked it tight and turned off the light:
“I’m sleeping here,” said John.

A servant to Sir Lavé hurried;—
“Sir John is in bed with the bride:”
“Yeah, that’s true,” said John.

Sir Lavé rushed to the chamber:
“Get up, and quickly open the door!”
“Sounds like a good idea!” said John.

He hit with his shield, he hit with his spear—
“Come out, you coward, and fight me here!”
“Another time,” said John.

“And since you have slept with my bride,
I will complain to our good king.”
“You can do that,” said John.

As soon as the morning light appeared,
Sir Lavé headed for our king’s throne;
“I’ll go there too,” said John.

“O King, punish this wicked man,
For he slept with my wife last night.”
“It's true,” said John.

“Since you two love the same pretty face,
Your lances will have to settle this.”
“With all my heart,” said John.

The sun was shining brightly above,
And thousands gathered to watch the fight:
“Look! Here I am,” said John.

The first race they ran so freely,
Sir John’s horse stumbled to its knee:
“Now help me God!” said John.

The next course they ran, in anger,
Sir Lavé fell into the mud.
“He’s definitely dead!” said John.

The winner hurried to the castle,
And there he found the bride in tears:
“You're mine,” said John.

That night, putting aside all worries,
Once more she embraced him in her arms.
“I’ve got her now!” said John.

May Asda has gone to the cheerful green woods;
Her hair was like flax, flowing softly from her temples;
Her cheek like a rose petal that fills the air with its scent;
Her figure, like a graceful lily stalk, beautiful and fair:

She mourned for her lover, Sir Frovin the Brave,
For he had set out on the rough seas;
And, eager to earn the honors of battle,
Had sailed with King Humble to distant Orkney:

At the party and celebration, wherever she went,
Her mind was focused on his risks and dangers;
No joy comes to a heart that loves deeply and truly—
No pleasure except when the loved one is near!

May Asda walked out in the beautiful afternoon,
And wandered where the beeches stood tall and proud;
She settled herself on the green sloping hill,
Where the Erl-people lived, [4] and where they still live:

Then the ground shook as she sat quietly,
And right from the mountain three maidens appeared;
And with them a loom, and on it a thread,
As white as the snow when it falls on the roof.

Of bright red gold was the fairy loom made;
They sang and they danced, and their quick shuttles played;
Their song was about death, and their song was about life,
It sounded like waves in chaos and strife.

They gave her a sad look,
And vanished like bubbles that popped in the stream;
But deep in the mountains, a sweet melody was heard,
As the lady returned to her home once more.

The web was unfinished; she wove and spun,
And didn’t take a break until it was done;
And there was enough, when the work was finished,
To make a shirt or sheet for a dead man.

The heroes returned from the hard-fought battlefield,
And brought home Sir Frovin’s body, laid on a shield;
It was a sad sight for the maiden! but she remained vigilant,
And sewed the funeral shirt around the body:

And when she got to the very last stitch,
Her feelings, held back for so long, boiled over;
The cold, clammy sweat broke out across her face;
Death hit her, and she quietly accepted the blow.

She now lies with her lover deep in the grave,
And above them, the beech trees sway their mossy branches;
There, the Erl-maidens sing their songs loudly,
And dance while the cheerful moon looks out from the clouds.

Have you heard of brave Sir Aager,
How he rode to that island;
There he saw the lovely Eliza,
Who graced him with a smile.

There he married lovely Eliza,
With her land and bright gold—
Woe is me! the Monday after,
Dead he lay beneath the soil!

In her shelter sat Eliza;
Rent the air with scream and groan;
All who heard the good Sir Aager,
Underneath the granite stone.

Up his strong arms he gathered,
Took the coffin on his back;
And to beautiful Eliza’s cottage
Rushed, by the familiar path.

On her room's simple door,
With his long, thin fingers,
He tapped three times and asked Eliza
To let her groom in right away!

Straight away, fair Eliza answered,
“I won’t open my door
Until I hear you say sweet Jesus,
As you’ve often done before.”

“Get up, my own Eliza,
And open your bedroom door;
I can speak the name of Jesus,
Like I used to before.”

Up then rose the lovely Eliza,—
Up she rose, and spun the pin.
Instantly the bedroom door swung open,
And the dead man glided in.

With her comb she brushed his curls,
Since she felt very little fear:
On each strand that she fixed
Dropped a hot and salty tear.

“Listen, now, my good Sir Aager,
Dearest bridegroom, all I want
Is to know how you are,
In that lonely place, the grave?”

“Every time you feel joy,
And your chest rises with happiness,
That moment is my coffin
Lined with rose and laurel leaves.

“Every time you shed
Tears from your eyes,
In that moment, my coffin
Is filled with dark and repulsive blood.

“Heard I not the red rooster crowing,
Distant far upon the wind?
Down to dust the dead are going,
And I can’t stay behind.

“Bright gates of heaven open,—
Daylight floods my sight;
Though it's tough to say,
I must say goodbye to you, my love!”

He gathered his strong arms,
Lifted the coffin onto his back,
And hurried straight to the graveyard
Along the familiar, worn path.

Up then rose the sweet Eliza;
Tears on her face stood,
As she looked after her lover
Through the dark and gloomy woods.

When they reached the lonely enclosure,
(Last, sad refuge of the dead)—
From the face of good Sir Aager
All the lovely color disappeared:

“Listen, now, my sweet Eliza,
If my peace is important to you:
Never, then, from this moment on,
Shed a single tear for me.

“Turn your lovely eyes to heaven,
Where the stars are shining faintly;
You can tell me, then, for sure,
If the night is starting to fade.”

When she turned her eyes to the sky,
All sprinkled with stars above,
On the ground, the dead man moved,
And she never saw him again.

Homeward went the sweet Eliza;
Oh, her heart was cold and empty:—
Woe is me! the Monday after,
Dead she lay under the ground!

St. Oluf was a powerful king,
Who ruled the Northern land;
He preached the holy Christian faith,
And taught it, with sword in hand.

St. Oluf built a tall ship,
With sails of beautiful silk;
“I need to go to Hornelummer,
And see what’s happening there.”

“Please don’t go,” the sailors said,
“To that dangerous place,
Where fierce Jutts, [5] and evil elves,
And demonic spirits, thrive.”

St. Oluf climbed up the side of the ship;
Nothing could break his spirit!
“Lift up, lift up the anchor now;
Let’s set sail in Jesus’ name.

“The cross will be my sword now—
The book of God my shield;
And, armed with them, I hope and trust
To make the demons surrender.”

And fast, like an eagle cutting through the sky,
The brave ship soared;
Straight toward Hornelummer’s rock,
Across the ocean’s rolling blue.

It was early in the morning
When she dropped anchor there;
And, look! the Jutt stood on the cliff,
To take in the morning air:

His eyes were like the blazing fire—
His mouth was all twisted;
I swear it's true, and I say he stood
A full twenty feet tall:

His beard was like a horse’s mane,
And flowed down his chest;
The claws at the tips of his fingers
Were terrifying to see.

“I’ve never seen,” he shouted,
“A ship come close to my shore,
That I couldn’t pull to land,
Just by reaching out my hand.”

The good St. Oluf smiled at that,
And then spoke to his crew:
“Now be quiet, and pay attention
To what I’m about to do.”

The giant stretched his huge arm;
The ship was close to his own;
But when St. Oluf raised the cross,
He sank knee-deep in stone.

“Here I am, stuck knee-deep in stone!
I can’t move my legs;
But since my back and fists are free,
You’ll still see my strength.”

“Be quiet, be quiet, you noisy visitor—
Be quiet forever;
Become a rock and bug right there,
Above the frothy waves.”

Up rose then, from the hill,
The demon’s old wife;
She cursed the king a thousand times,
And waved her knife high.

Sorely puzzled then the little elves,
Who sat inside the hill,
To see their mother, suddenly,
Stand just as stiff and still:

“It's done,” they shouted, “by that figure over there,
Who rides on the waves;
Let’s wade out to him through the surf,
And hit him with our sticks.”

At Hornelummer, something happened then,
Something that had never happened before;
The elves wanted to leave the hill,
But couldn't find a way out:

They pounded their heads against the wall,
And tried to break through it;
They couldn’t break the hard rock,
But ended up breaking their necks instead.

Now, thanks to God and Jesus Christ,
And good St. Oluf’s arm,
We can sail to Hornelummer
Without any trouble or harm.

On Dovrefeld, [6] in Norway,
Were once seen together
The twelve brave brothers
Of Ingeborg, the queen:

And they were all magicians,
Gifted with powerful skills,
Who easily read the Runic,
And knew the rhyme by heart. [7]

The first could control the lightning,
And dim its fiery glow:
The second, with a soft word,
Could calm the flowing stream:

The third underwater
Could dive like any fish:
The fourth could gather food
By hitting on his dish:

The fifth on the golden harp
Played so wonderfully,
That all the men who heard him
Started to dance joyfully:

The sixth, he had a bugle,
And when he blew a blast,
The strongest of his enemies
Would run away from him quickly:

The seventh, unrestricted,
Could roam through solid hills:
The eighth could walk the ocean,
When the waves were in foam:

The ninth could magically
Draw the fish from the deep:
The tenth was never tired,
Nor overcome by sleep:

The eleventh tied up the dragon
That slithered through the grass;
And all he wanted to happen
Was guaranteed to happen:

The twelfth, who was known
As the smartest of the group,
Knew what was happening
In every distant land.

And now, truly, I tell you,
Whoever listens to my song,
That such a group of brothers
Will never be seen again.

Grimm, in the preface to his German translation of the Kiæmpé Viser, describes this Ballad in these amazing words:—

Svend Vonved sits in his lonely space;
He plays his harp with a strong hand;
His harp made a lively sound in reply;
Then his mother rushed in:
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

In walked his mother Adeline,
And who was she, but a queen, so elegant:
“Now listen, Svend Vonved! you must go ride,
And fight bravely against the proud knights.
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

“Avenge your father's untimely death;
Lend me, or someone else, your golden harp;
Get ready this moment and leave right away!
I advise you, my own dear son, to do this.”
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

Svend Vonved fastens his sword to his side;
He eagerly wants to fight with proud knights.
“When will I see you here again?
When the heifer is roasting and the beer is spiced?”
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

“When stones will fly on their own,
And raven feathers turn [10] white,
Then you can expect Svend Vonved to return:
In all my life, I will never come.”
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

His mother took that the wrong way:
“I hear, young man, that you’re crazy;
Wherever you go, on land or sea,
Disgrace and shame will follow you.”
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

He kissed her three times, with his fiery lips:
“Calm down, mother, calm down your anger;
Never wish any bad luck on me,
Because you can't know how far I might go.”
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

“Then I will bless you, this very day;
You will never perish in any battle;
Success will be in your tall horse;
Success within yourself, which is the best of all.
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

“Success in your hand, success in your step,
In struggles with humans, in battles with beasts;
The holy God and Saint Drotten [11] dear
Will guide and watch over you throughout your journey.
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

“They will both take you under their care,
So you will surely never be harmed:
Look at that sword of steel so bright,
No helmet or shield can withstand its strike.”
  Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

Svend Vonved spoke up again—
“I’ll roam the mountains and wander the plains,
I’ll hurt and kill both peasant and noble;
Everyone, everyone will pay for my father's wrongs.”
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

Svend Vonved strapped his sword to his side,
He’s eager to fight knights full of pride;
So fierce and unusual was his entire look,
No one dared to get in his way.
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

His helmet was flashing in the sunlight,
His spurs were clinking against his heels,
His horse was leaping, the bridle jingling,
While the warrior sat there singing wildly.
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

He rode for a day, he rode for three,
No town or city in sight, you see;
“Ha!” said the young man, “by my father’s hand,
There’s no city in this entire land.”
   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

He rode along and sang a cheerful tune,
Then he unexpectedly encountered Sir Thulé Vang;
Sir Thulé Vang, with his twelve brave sons,
All dressed in gleaming, cold iron.
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

Svend Vonved drew his sword from his side,
Eager to fight with seasoned knights;
He first pierced the proud Sir Thulé,
Then, one after another, he killed his sons.
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

Svend Vonved straps his sword to his side,
It urges him to ride on, to ride;
He rode along by the green woods; [12]
He was surprised to see the Brute-carl [13] there.
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

A wild boar sat on his broad shoulders,
A black bear snoozed on his chest;
And around his fingers, with hair draped over,
The squirrel played, and the weasel clung.
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

“Now, Brute-carl, give me your stuff,
Or I’ll take it by force from you.
So, will you quickly give up your animals,
Or will you risk it and fight with me?
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

“Much rather, much rather, I’ll fight with you,
Than let you take my prize from me;
I’ve never been asked to do anything like this,
Since I defeated good King Esmer in battle.”
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

“And did you kill King Esmer fine?
Well, then you’ve killed my dear father;
And soon, very soon, you’ll pay for that,
With the flesh hacked off from every limb of yours!”
   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

They drew a circle on the grass;
They both were grim, like the stones are tough;
Honestly, I tell you, their hearts were strong,—
Neither would give an inch to the other.
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

They fought for a day—they fought for two—
And so on the third they were eager to continue;
But before the fourth day came to night,
The brute fell and was killed outright.
   Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

Svend Vonved straps his sword to his side,
On and on he goes to ride:
He rode at the base of a steep hill,
There he saw a herd as he tended the sheep.
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

“Now tell me, Herd, and tell me honestly,
Whose sheep are you herding over there?
And what is rounder than a wheel?
And where do they have the most sacred meal?”
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

“Where does the fish stand in the flood?
And where is the bird that’s redder than blood?
Where do they mix the best, finest wine?
And where does Vidrik dine with his knights?”
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

There sat the herd, he sat in thought;
To never a question did he answer at all.
Svend gave him a blow, a blow so hard,
That his lung and his liver spilled out on the yard.
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

On and on he went, until he spotted more sheep;
The herd was sitting by the side of a deep pit.
"Now tell me, Herd, and tell me straight,
Whose sheep are you tending over there?”
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

“Look at that house over there, with its turret and tower,
There, feasting happens to pass the time;
A man lives there, named Tyggé Nold,
With his twelve handsome sons, who are famous knights.”
   Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

“Enough, Sir Herd; now listen—
Go, tell Tyggé Nold to come out here.”
From his chest, Svend Vonved pulled a gold ring;
At the foot of the herd, he tossed the gold ring.
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

And as Svend Vonved got closer to the place,
They started to divide his loot among them.
Some wanted his shiny sword,
Others, his armor, or his strong horse.
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

Svend Vonved pauses, lost in thought;
He decides it’s better to stay with his horse:
He won’t part with his armor and sword,
He'd much rather choose to fight the young man.
   Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

“Had you twelve sons like the twelve you have,
And came in among them demanding me quickly,
You would sooner draw water from steel,
Than deal with me in such a way.
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

He dug his spurs into his tall horse,
Which jumped right over the gate and wall.
Tyggé Nold he has laid out in blood,
And his twelve sons too, who stood beside him.
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

Then he quickly turned his horse around,—
Svend Vonved, the knight, so young and strong;
He rode forward over mountains and moors,
Not a single soul he encountered, which frustrated him a lot.
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

He eventually arrived at another flock,
Where a herd was sitting and combing his yellow hair:
“Now listen, Herd, with your fluffy coat;
Listen, and give me fair answers.”
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

“What is rounder than a wheel?
Where do they have the holiest meal?
Where does the sun go to rest?
And where do they place the dead man's feet?”
   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

“What fills the valleys everywhere?
What is most lavish in the king’s hall?
What cries louder than cranes can cry?
And what can outshine the swan in whiteness?
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

“Who wears a beard on his back?
Who has a nose under his chin?
What’s darker than the darkest sloe?
And what’s faster than a roe?
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

“Where is the widest bridge?
What is the most hated by people?
Where does the steepest road go up?
And tell me, where do they drink the hottest drinks?”
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

“The sun is rounder than a wheel.
They eat at the altar the holiest meal.
The sun in the West sets down in its place:
And they lay the dead man's feet to the East.
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

“Snow blankets the valleys, every single one.
People are dressed best in the king’s palace.
Thunder sounds louder than cranes can call.
Angels in white outshine the swan.
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

“His beard on his back the lapwing wears.
His nose under his chin the elf has. [14]
More black is sin than the blackest sloe:
And thought is quicker than any roe.
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

“Ice is, of bridges, the broadest bridge.
The toad is, of all creatures, the most hated.
To paradise leads the highest road:
And in hell, the hottest drink is what they have.”
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

“Now you’ve given me good answers,
To each and every one of my rare questions;
And now, I ask you, be my guide,
To the closest place where warriors are waiting.”
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

“To Sonderborg, I'll take you right away,
Where the heroes drink both early and late:
There you'll find a group of knights,
Proud and tough, hard to bring down.”
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

With a shiny gold ring, his arm was adorned,
It weighed a full fifteen pounds,
Which he gave to the herd as a reward,
Because he wants to show him the knights quickly.
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

Svend Vonved entered the castle yard;
There Randulph, wrapped in his furs, [15] stood guard:
“Hey! Thief, hey! with shield and sword,
What are you doing in my territory?”
   Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

“I will, I will, with my one hand,
Take from you, Knave, all of your land:
I will, I will, with my one toe,
Knock you and all your castles down.”
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

“Do not, with your single hand,
Take from me, Hound, an inch of my land;
And far, far less, shall you, with your toe,
Lay me or one of my castles low.
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

“You shall never, with your finger,
Break apart one limb of mine; [16]
I am too grown and strong for you,
As you will soon realize at your expense.”
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

Svend Vonved drew his bright sword,
Eager to fight with proud Randulph;
He has defeated Randulph with strength,
And Strandulph too, with just cause.
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

The rest charged at him all at once,
Then he killed Carl Egé, the fierce and ruthless:—
He killed the strong, he killed the weak;
He kept killing until all his enemies were dead.
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

Svend Vonved straps his sword to his side,
It pushes him farther to ride, to ride;
He came across the barren wasteland
A strong [17] knight, looking tough.
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

“Now tell me, Rider, noble and good,
Where does the fish rise up in the flood?
Where do they serve the finest, best wine?
And where does Vidrik dine with his knights?”
   Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

"The fish in the East rises in the flood.
They enjoy the good wine in the North.
In Halland’s hall, Vidrik dines,
Surrounded by his companions and fine warriors."
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

From his chest, Svend Vonved took out a gold ring;
He tossed the gold ring at the knight's feet:
“Go! Tell everyone you were the very last man
To take gold from Svend Vonved's hand.”
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

Svend Vonved arrived at the castle;
He told the guards to open the gate:
When none of the guards responded to his shout,
He immediately jumped over the tall walls.
   Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

He tied his horse to a ring in the wall,
Then he went into the large stone hall;
He sat down at the head of the table,
Not a word did he say to anyone present.
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

He drank and he ate, he ate and he drank,
He didn't ask for permission, and he didn't say thank you;
"I’ve never been on Christian land
Where so many cursed voices were yelling around."
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

King Vidrik said to the three good knights:
“Go, tie up that gloomy guy for me;
If you don’t tie up the stranger guest,
You won’t be serving me as well as you can.”
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

“Even if you send three times twenty,
And come yourself to grab me;
You'll still be a son of a dog,
And yet have tried in vain to bind me.
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

“Esmer, my father, who rests on his bier,
And proud Adeline, my beloved mother,
Have often and firmly advised me
Not to waste my breath on hounds like you.”
   Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

“And was King Esmer your father's name,
And Adeline that of his virtuous lady?
You are Svend Vonved, the wild young man,
My own dear sister’s only child.
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

“Svend Vonved, will you stay with me here?
Honor is waiting for you, along with a lavish feast;
Whenever you feel like going out,
Knights and commoners will be at your service.
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

“Silver and gold you will never be without,
Or a helmet for your head, or armor for your back;”
But to this and similar advice, he would pay no attention,
And now he will head home to his mother.
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

Svend Vonved galloped down the path;
His mind was a victim of dark thoughts;
As he rode into the castle yard
Where twelve witches stood, wrinkled and scarred:
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

There they all stood, with their spinning wheels and shuttles, [18]—
Each one took a hit on his shinbone:
Svend turned his horse around in a rage;
He chopped down the witches right there.
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

He chopped the witches into pieces,
They got no mercy from him;
His mother came out and met the same fate,
He chopped her body into fifteen pieces.
Watch out, watch out, Svend Vonved.

Then he went into his quiet retreat,
There he drank the wine, the wine of power:
He played on his beloved harp
Until every string was broken.
   Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

This is one of those ballads that have been sung in Denmark since the days of Arild. It includes the names and deeds of most of the famous heroes mentioned in other poems. It’s divided into two parts: the first part, which focuses on the warrior's actions, closely resembles chapter 178 of the Vilkina Saga, while the last part, which describes the duel, is similar to chapters 180 and 181 of the same saga.

I can't help but quote and translate what Anders Sorensen Vedel, the respected editor of the first edition of the Kiæmpé Viser, published in 1591, said about the seemingly superhuman feats of the heroes celebrated in it.

There were 120 people, 130 in total,
From Hald who rode that day;
And when they arrived at Brattingsborg
They set up their colorful tent.

King Nilaus stood on the top of the turret,
Had everything in sight:
“Why do those heroes value their lives so little,
That they’re willing to fight here?

“Now, listen to me, Sivard Snaresvend;
You've traveled far and wide,
You will test the warriors' weapons,
You must go directly to their tent.”

It was Sivard Snaresvend,
To the big tent he hurried then:
“I greet you all, in my master’s name,
All of you, Dane king’s men.

“Now, don’t be upset that I’m here;
I come as a fighter, unbound:
We’ll soon test our strength in battle;
Let me see your stance.”

There stands on the first good shield
A lion, so fierce and bold,
With a crown on his head, made of bright gold,
That is King Diderik’s symbol.

There gleam on the second shield
A hammer and bright pliers;
Carried by Vidrik Verlandson,
He never gives mercy in battle.

There shines on the third good shield
A falcon, blazing with gold;
And that by Helled Hogan is carried;
No knight is bolder than he.

There is a bright fourth shield
with an eagle, and it’s red;
Carried only by Olger, the Dane;
He takes his enemies down.

There shines on the fifth good shield
A resting hawk, on a wall;
That's carried by Master Hildebrand;
He tests a fall with heroes.

And now here comes the sixth good shield
A linden wood one;
And it is carried by young Sir Humble,
King Abelon's oldest son.

There shines on the seventh good shield
A spur, in a style so free;
And that's carried by Hogan, the younger,
Because he wants to lead the way.

There shines on the eighth good shield
   A gray wolf, thin and frail;
Carried by young Ulf van Jern;
   Watch how you might mock him!

There shine upon the ninth good shield
   Three arrows, and they are white;
Carried by Vidrik Stageson,
   And trust that you may be gallant.

There shines on the tenth good shield
A fiddle, and underneath it a bow;
That's carried by Folker Spillemand;
For drinks, he will skip sleep.

There shines on the eleventh shield
A dragon that looks fierce;
It's carried by Orm, the young swain;
He isn’t afraid of anyone's anger.

And now, look at the twelfth good shield,
And on it a burning brand;
It’s carried by brave Sir Vifferlin
Through many a prince’s land.

There’s a sprig of the sad yew on the thirteenth shield,
Carried by Harrald Griskeson;
And he’s a loyal friend.

There are on the fourteenth shield
   A cloak and a strong staff;
And those were carried by Alsing, the brave monk,
   When he defeated his enemies.

And now the fifteenth shield appears,
And on it three bare swords
Are carried by good King Esmer’s sons,
In their battles and fierce raids.

There sits on the sixteenth shield,
   With coal-black wings, a crow;
That’s carried by the wealthy Count Raadengaard;
   The dark runes he can toss well. [19]

There shines on the seventeenth shield
A horse, so regal and proud,
Is carried by Count Sir Guncelin;
“Fight! fight! don't hold back,” is his shout.

There shines on the eighteenth shield
A man and a fierce wild boar,
Carried by the Count of Lidebierg;
His strikes hit hard and hurt.

There shines on the nineteenth shield
A hound, running at full speed;
Carried by Oisten Kiæmpe, brave;
He’s putting himself at risk without a care.

There shines on the twentieth shield,
Among branches, a rose, so cheerful;
Wherever Sir Nordman goes to battle,
He brings home great honor.

There shines on the twenty-first shield
A vase, and it's made of copper;
That's carried by Mogan Sir Olgerson;
He conquers vast lands with his sword.

And now here comes the next great shield,
With a sun shining through the darkness;
And it’s carried by Asbiorn Mildé;
He puts the knights to work. [20]

There shines on the twenty-third shield
An arm, bound in a manacle;
And that by Alvor Sir Langé is carried,
To the heroes he passes mead around.

Now comes the twenty-fourth shield,
And you can see a bright sword there;
And it's carried by Humble Sir Jerfing;
He truly deserves it.

There shines on the next good shield
A goshawk, hunting its prey;
That's carried by a knight, the best of all—
Sir Iver Blaa is his name.

Now comes the twenty-sixth shield,
A javelin there you see;
Is carried by little Mimring Tan;
He won't run away from anyone.

Such knights and banners were present,
And who can name them all;
It was Sivard, the Snaresvend;
He no longer chose to wait.

“If there’s one of the Danish king’s men,
Who at Dyst [21] is ready to ride,
Let him, I ask, without stopping or delaying,
Meet me by the edge of the wilderness.”

“The man among you, you Danish court men,
   Who at Dyst has won the most rewards;
I am ready to fight him today,
   For both of our noble horses.”

The heroes tossed the die on the board;
The die rolled far and wide:
“Since, young Sir Humble, it lands by you,
You must face Sivard.”

Sir Humble slammed his hand on the table;
He no longer wants to play:
I tell you, honestly, that the rosy color
From his cheek quickly faded away.

“Now, listen to me, Vidrik Verlandson;
You are such a free man;
Please lend me Skimming, your horse, today;
I’ll promise you whatever I can:

“Eight good castles in Birting’s land,
   I’ll set as guarantees for him;
My sister too, the fair-skinned maid,
   You’ve never met a fairer one:

“Eight great castles, and eight great knights;
   I wouldn’t dream of giving you less:
If Skimming gets hurt today,
   You shall comfort my sister.”

“If those mountains over there were made of gold,
And those streams were flowing with wine;
I wouldn’t take the whole thing for Skimming;
I thank God that He is mine.”

“Sivard is a blind young man;
Can’t even see the tip of his sword:
If Skimming were in danger, you couldn’t pay me
With the help of all your friends."

“The sword spins in Sivard’s hand,
Like the sails of a windmill;
If you go after Skimming against that wild fool,
It’s definitely not what I want.”

Humbly, he sat on Skimming’s back,
So boldly can he ride;
But Skimming thought it quite odd
That a spur was attached to his side.

The first journey they took together,
So strong were the two knights,
Humble’s saddle-ring broke apart,
And his good shield flew a furlong away.

"I think you’re a handsome young guy,
And you can ride your horse well;
Get off right away and saddle your horse;
I'm ready for you to stay."

The second course they rode together
Was worthy of knights renowned;
Then both their saddles broke in two,
And Humble was thrown to the ground.

“Now I've thrown you off your horse,
Your mount rightfully belongs to me;
But, tell me, young and brave young man,
Who are you, and what’s your background?

“Now I've won the prize from you,
And Skimming is mine;
But, tell me, young and brave guy,
What parents gave birth to you?”

“Abelon is my dad's name;
He sits on Birting’s throne:
Queen Ellina is my mom,
And that’s definitely true."

“Queen Ellina, my mother—
A Queen whom everyone admires;
Good King Abelon Haardestaal,
So they call my gray-haired father.”

“And who am I, but Humble, the young,
A knight from Birting’s land;
Of a heroic lineage, whose fame reaches
To the furthest corners of the earth.”

“If Abelon is your father's name,
I will return the horse right away;
I see now that you are my very good friend;
I didn't know you, young man, before.”

“If Queen Ellina is your mother,
Then you have indeed won Skimming back;
You are truly my dear friend;
You are my sister’s son.

“Grab both shield ropes and tie me directly to that oak tree;
Then rush back to King Diderik,
and tell him you’ve defeated me.”

In came Humble, the young knight,
Dressed in a green tunic;
“O! I’ve got my horse back again,
And I’ve captured the fierce warrior.”

In came Humble, with his boots on and spurs jingling,
He tossed his sword onto the table:
“Sivard is tied up in the woods,
He isn't saying a word.

“O, I have been to the wild forest,
And have captured the fierce warrior;
Sivard was taken by me there,
And tied to the rough bark of the oak.”

“Listen up, young Sir Humble, the knight,
   It’s clear a joke is intended,
Whenever Sivard was tied by you,
   It was done with his own agreement.”

It was Vidrik Verlandson,
And he wanted to know everything.
“O, I will ride to the woods and see
How Sivard is handling his bondage.”

Vidrik spoke to his strong groom:
“Go, saddle up Skimming Gray,
For I’m going to ride to the woods and hear
What Sivard himself has to say.”

Sivard stands in the lush green woods,
There he sees Vidrik riding:
“If Vidrik finds me trapped here,
He’ll chop my rib bones from my side.”

Then Vidrik Verlandson laughed loudly,
And Skimming started to neigh,
For Sivard pulled the oak tree out;
He didn't dare stay any longer.

The queen sat up high in her loft,
And looked out far and wide:
“Oh, here comes Sivard Snaresvend,
With a majestic oak by his side.”

Then the beautiful Queen Gloriant laughed loudly,
As she looked at Sivard completely:
“You were, without a doubt, in serious, serious need,
When you picked such flowers.”

The King stood at the castle gate,
In his robes and royal crown:
“Oh, here comes Sivard Snaresvend,
And he’s bringing Summer to town.”[22]

Now the heroes dance at Brattingsborg;
They dance in their felt coats;
There dances Sivard, the blind swain,
With an oak tree under his belt.

King Diderik sits in the halls of Bern,
   And he proudly talks about his brave deeds;
So many a young man in battle he’s defeated,
   And captured so many a knight.

King Diderik sits in the halls of Bern,
And he strikes his shiny shield;
“O, if only I knew of a hero now,
Against whom I could take the field.”

Then Master Hildebrand answered,
(For he knew everything best),
“There’s a Giant sleeping at Birtingsberg;
Do you dare to disturb his rest?”

“Now, listen to me, Master Hildebrand;
   You are big in body and limb;
You shall ride first into the woods today,
   And deliver our challenge to him.”

Then answered Master Hildebrand,
He was such a thoughtful knight;
“Not so, my Lord, will I do today,
For the rewards don’t please me.”

Then spoke Vidrik Verlandson,
And he was in a furious mood;
“O, I’ll be the first of the group today,
All through the Birting wood.”

Then Vidrik Verlandson spoke up,
And he spoke with great pride;
“The blacksmith made me a great sword,
That can cut through steel like cloth.”

They were three hundred brave knights,
riding into Birting’s land;
They were on a quest for Langben the Jutt,
to the dark woods, his home.

Then Vidrik Verlandson spoke up;
“We’re going to play an amazing game;
For I’ll be the first to ride in the forest,
If you’ll just trust me to go.”

Then answered brave King Diderik,
He answered quickly then;
“When you find the Jutt,
Come back for me and my men.”

It was Vidrik Verlandson,
Alone he rushed through the forest;
And there he found such a narrow path,
That led up to the Giant.

It was Vidrik Verlandson,
He came to Birting’s hill;
There, dark and terrifying, lay Langben the Jutt,
He lay stretched out, and silent.

It was Vidrik Verlandson,
With his lance tapped him on the knee;
“Wake up! Wake up! It's Langben the Jutt,
You're sleeping really sound, I see.”

“Here I have lain for many years,
Among the leaves and the dew-covered grass;
But never, until now, has a warrior passed by,
Who dared to disturb my sleep.”

“Here I stand, Vidrik Verlandson,
With a great sword by my side;
I came to wake you from your sleep,
Regardless of what may happen.”

It was Langben the Giant, then,
Turned up the white of his eye;
“O, where could this warrior youth come from,
Who launches such bold words?”

“But listen, warrior youth;
I won’t fight with you,
Unless you prove you come from a noble lineage;
So tell me about your ancestry.”

“A good-looking blacksmith my father was,
And Verland was his name:
They called my mother fair Bodild;
Queen over three countries:

“Skimming I name my noble horse,
   Born from the wild sea-mare:
Blank [23] I call my proud helmet,
   Because it shines so bright:

“Skrepping I call my good thick shield;
Steel shafts have furrowed it over:
Mimmering I’ve named my sword;
It’s hardened in heroes’ blood:

“And I am Vidrik Verlandson;
For clothes I wear bright iron:
If you don’t stand up on your long, long legs,
I’ll pin you down to your lair:

“Stand up on your long legs,
And don’t look so stubborn and serious;
The King is waiting by the woods;
You must give your treasure to him.”

“All the gold that I have,
   I will keep with great honor;
I won’t give it up on some little stable boy’s say,
   To the best king in a crown.”

"So young and small as I appear here,
You'll find me ready for a fight;
I'll slice your head right off your shoulders,
And take away your precious gold."

It was Langben the mighty Jutt,
With rage his heart was ignited;
“Get out of here! Get out of here! you brave young warrior,
If you aren't tired of life.”

Skimming jumped up, with both legs,
Against the giant’s side
Then five of his rib bones broke apart,
And the fight started at that moment.

It was Langben the tall Jutt,
He swung his steel mace around;
He aimed a hit at Vidrik;
But the mace hit hard in the ground.

It was Langben the mighty Jutt,
Who had planned to take down his enemy,
But the strike missed Vidrik;
For the strong horse carried him off.

It was Langben the tall Jutt,
That yelled out in wild despair:
“Now my mace is stuck in the hillock,
As if it were hammered in there!”

Vidrik didn't hesitate at all;
He was so ready to attack:
“Go for it, Skimming, hit him again!
Now, Mimmering, now win!”

He grabbed his sword with both hands,
And charged at Langben Giant;
He hit him so hard in the hairy chest,
That the tip pierced through his lungs.

Now Langben Giant has a wound,
And he’s fully awake now;
So he would gladly pay it back,
But, unfortunately, he didn’t know how.

“Cursed be you, young Vidrik!
And cursed be your sharp steel!
You’ve given me, look, a wound in my chest,
From which the pain I feel arises.”

“I'll cut you down, Giant, I'll cut you down as small
As leaves carried by the wind,
Unless you show me everything,
That you've hidden in the forest.”

“Forbear, O Vidrik Verlandson,
Don’t strike me down so cruelly!
And I will lead you right to my house,
That’s thatched with gold so red.”

Vidrik rode, and the Giant crept,
So far through the forest paths,
They found the house with the red gold thatch;
It sparkled like straw in a fire.

“There, there are piles of gold,
No King has a bigger stash;
Take away the large black stone,
And lift the door off its hinges.”

With both hands, Vidrik grabbed the stone,
But he tried in vain to move it;
The Giant picked it up with just his finger and thumb,
And lifted it high into the sky.

“Now listen up, young warrior,
You can turn your horse around;
But in every display of manly strength,
I could totally outdo you.”

Then answered Vidrik Verlandson,
(He was afraid something bad would happen to him)
“It's not the way of any wise person
To waste their strength on a stone.”

“There’s a lot more gold in there
Than fifteen kings can display;
Listen to me, Vidrik Verlandson,
You will be the first to go in there.”

Then Vidrik Verlandson replied,
   (For he understood his clever plan)
“You will show the way into your own house,
   Because that is the law of warriors.”

It was Langben the Giant then,
He bent down low to the door:
It was Vidrik Verlandson
Who took his head off in one swing.

He moved the trembling body aside,
And leaned it against an oak;
Then he rode back the long, long way,
He had thought of a brilliant joke.

With giant's blood, he smeared himself,
And covered his horse all over;
Then he rides back to King Diderik,
Pretending to be severely wounded.

“Stay here in peace, my good friends,
All under the green hill;
Longben the Giant has struck me today,
I fear I won’t fare well.”

“If you’ve taken a hit from the Giant,
Your life must be nearly over;
We’ll ride back quickly to the halls of Bern,
We won’t lose another man.”

“Now go on, brave King Diderik,
Come into the woods with me;
And all the gold that the giant had,
That I will show you.”

“If you have killed the giant today,
it will be widely celebrated in the land;
And no warrior exists in this world,
whom you might fear to face.”

But what happened to King Diderik’s men?
When they first saw the giant,
They all came to a halt, in the good green woods,
Stripped of courage all at once.

They truly believed the giant would
Step right after them in that moment:
None of them would have faced him;
They all would have run back.

It was Vidrik Verlandson,
He laughed at their cowardly fear:
“How would you have faced him when he was alive,
You wouldn’t dare go near him, now that he’s dead?

With the shaft of his lance, he pushed the body,
The head came crashing down:
That the Giant was a tough warrior,
Truly, I have to admit.

Out came his bright gold,
And they shared it among the group:
Vidrik got the biggest share,
Because it was earned by his hard work.

He didn't really care about the treasure, I think,
But he was focused on his reward of fame;
When people would say, in the Danish land,
That he defeated the Giant.

So they happily rode to Bern again;
King Diderik was the happiest of all:
There he had Vidrik Verlandson
sit next to him in the hall.

Upon this Ballad, Oehlenslæger created his “Elvir Shades,” a translation of which has already been provided.

I rested my head on Elvir Hill's side, and my eyes were starting to close;
At that moment, two young women appeared before me, whose beauty would take ages to count.

One patted my face, and the other exclaimed, while covering my cheek with her kisses,
“Get up, get up, because we've come all the way from the deepest caves and abysses to dance with you here.

“Get up, handsome shepherd, and don’t say no to dancing; my sister and I will sing you
The most beautiful songs you’ve ever heard, and we’ll bring you the nicest gifts.”

Then both of them sang such a delightful song that the boisterous river in front of us
Suddenly became quiet and calm, as if it were afraid to interrupt the sweet chorus.

The noisy stream suddenly went quiet, even though it was used to being foamy and loud;
And without any fear, the trout swam alongside the pike, and the pike swam with him as a friend.

The fish, which lived deep in the flood, swam up from their caves;
The cheerful little birds of the forest started to sing right away in the valley.

“Now, listen up, you fair-haired guy, and if you’ll stand up and dance for a minute,
We’ll teach you to open the sorcerer’s book and read all the runes in it.

“The bear and the wolf you will trap, at your leisure, to the thick trunk of the oak;
Before you, the dragon will flee from his nest, leaving you the sole master of his treasure.”

Then about and around on the moonlit hill, in their magical way they played,
While the brave and handsome young man sat still, whom they, in their playful mischief, pursued.

“And will you not grant us our civil request, proud young man, and will you deny it?
By hell’s fiery flames, our gold-handled knife will put you to rest forever.”

And if my good luck hadn’t worked out that way, that the rooster crowed in the distance,
I would have been killed by them, on the hill, with no strength to fight back.

It’s why I advise every young Danish guy who might ride in the gloomy forest,
Never to lie down on lonely Elvir Hill, no matter how tired he might be.

The following ballad is just a new version of one of the many exploits of Waldemar, the famous ghost hunter from the North. You can find more about him, as well as Palnatoka and Groon the Jutt, both spirits of a similar nature, in Thiele’s Danské Folkesagn.

Late in the evening, they were working on Harribee bank,
Because during harvest, no one should be idle:
Toward them rode Waldemar, thin and lank,
And he slowed down and pulled up his reins.

“Good luck with your work; have you seen anything pass by while harvesting tonight?”
“Yes, yes;” replied a peasant, “I saw something white,
   Just now, creeping through the corn stubble.”

“Which way did it go?” “I thought it went to the beach.”
Then Waldemar took off, bounding away;
A few minutes later, they heard a faint screech,
And the hunter's horn sounding.

Then he came back, laughing in a terrifying way,
And the blood in their veins ran colder,
When they saw that a freshly killed mermaid was
Draped across his proud horse's spotted shoulder.

Said he, “I’ve chased her for one hundred and forty years,
Since she came to drink at the fountains.”
He didn’t say anything more to their frightened ears,
But rode off to the mountains.

“Dear Mother, please figure out quickly
How I can win Marsk Stig’s daughter.”

She created for him, from water, a noble horse,
Whose adornments were made from rushes and reeds.

To a young knight, she then changed her son;
To Mary's church, he's gone at full speed.

His frothing horse he tied to the gate,
And walked around the church three times:

When he walked with his feather held high,
The dead men sighed from their graves:

The priest heard that, and he closed his book;
“I think that knight has a strange wild look.”

Then the maiden laughed under her sleeve;
“If he were my husband, I wouldn't be upset.”

He stepped over benches one and two:
“Oh, Marsk Stig’s daughter, I'm crazy about you.”

He stepped over benches two and three:
“O, Marsk Stig’s daughter, come home with me.”

Then the maid said, without hesitation,
“Here, I promise, I will go with you.”

They left the church like a wedding procession,
And danced joyfully across the field;

They danced until they reached the shore, and then
They were left behind by both girls and guys.

“Now, Marsk Stig’s daughter, take a seat and relax;
I’ll do my best to build a boat.”

He made a boat out of the whitest sand,
And off they sailed from the happy land;

But when they crossed the ninth green wave,
Down sank the boat to the ocean cave!

I warn you, girls, as best as I can,
Never promise your faith to a stranger.

Fair Agnes stood alone on the shore,
Then a Merman rose up from the waves:

“Now, Agnes, listen to what I’m saying,
Will you agree to be my sweetheart?”

“Oh, I’ll gladly do that,
If you just take me beneath the waves.”

He covered her ears and shut her eyes,
And into the ocean he took his prize.

The Merman’s love was Agnes there,—
She gave him beautiful sons and daughters:

One day she sat by the cradle and sang,
Then she heard the church bells ringing above:

She went to the Merman and kissed his forehead;
"Once more I'd happily go to church."

“And you will go to church one more time,
But come back to your babies down here.”

He wrapped his arm around her,
And he lifted her up onto England's soil.

Fair Agnes stepped in at the church door,
Behind her mother, who cried heavily.

“O Agnes, Agnes, dear daughter!
Where have you been all these years?”

“O, I have been far, far beneath the sea,
And lived with the Merman in love and joy.”

“And what did he give you for your honor,
When he made you his lover beneath the sea?”

“He gave me silver, he gave me gold,
And pieces of coral to hold my hair.”

The Merman reached the church door;
His eyes sparkled like a yellow flame;

His face was pale, and his beard was green—
A prettier demon was never seen.

“Now, Agnes, Agnes, listen to me,
Your kids are really missing you.”

“I can’t leave just yet, I have to stay here
Until the priest finishes his speech.”

And when the priest finished speaking,
She thought she'd stay home with her mom.

“O Agnes, Agnes, listen to me,
Your children are grieving for you.”

“Let them be sad and feel all their sadness,
But I will never go back to them.”

“Consider them, Agnes, consider them all;
Reflect on the great one, reflect on the small.”

“Little, oh little, do I care for any of them,
Whether it's the great one or the small one.”

O, then the Merman cried hard;
He hurried back to the foamy deep:

But often his screams and sad cries,
At midnight, come from there.

This is Denmark’s holiday;
Dance, you maidens!
Sing, you men!
Play, you harpists!
Blush, you heroes!
This is Denmark’s holiday.

In the enjoyment of rights, in the embrace of love,
Under the shade of the olive tree,
The Daneman sat;
While the bloody flag waved wet and steaming
Over the lands of the sunny South.
Our sky was clear,—
Clear and blue;
For, with his wings, angel Peace banished
All smoke and haze from the realm of gentle virtue;
Then descended Battle’s blood-stained son
Upon our shore,—
And haggard Envy gave him her torch,
Which sparkled with the fiery light of hell,
Then the spirit of peace fled and wept.

But mighty thunder rolled; the earth shook,
While all the moss-covered giant stones rattled, [24]
And Oldom’s sunken grave-hill rose;
Then Skiold, Frodé,
Svend, Knud, and Waldemar jumped up,[25]
In copper shirts of mail, pointing to
Rust spots of blood on sword and shield—
They disappeared:
And in the high, dim Gothic aisles,
The ancient banner fluttered wildly by itself
That hung above a hero’s bones;
The sword clattered loudly and endlessly
Within the tomb of Christian the Fourth, [26]
By Tordenskiold’s [27] chapel on the strand,
The daring Mermaid’s enchanting song rose wild;
The stones around the grave loosened
Where great Juul lay;
And Hvidtfeld, wrapped in a translucent mist,
With cherubic smiles lighting up his face,
Strolled, arm in arm, with his heroic brothers,
Along the deep.

We felt everyone's presence;
The old flags waved in the armory,
A marvelous spirit spread around, spread around
The Northern land.

Then Thor woke up, [28]
And wrapped the powerful belt
Made of bear sinews around his waist;
With brotherly love, he strengthened his shield,
In a rush, he sharpened his dull sword,
And with the iron from his hammer, touched
Each Dane's and every Norman's heart—
Sparked his heroic fire within them, and smiled!

And Denmark and Norway smiled.

Upon the water,
Upon the land,
We bounced for battle,
At Thor’s command.

Then our tears fell fast,
We breathed, we breathed heavily,
While hardly our lips could stutter out
Prayers for you, and for the North.

And we, and we, with aching chests,
Knelt, humbly knelt, while you stood strong,
Separated from us and from love,
In fumes and smoke, in brothers’ blood!

Tenderness comes from God;
Women and men should sing its praises;
But tenderness disappears at the call of honor;
We give everything for our country and King.

What were you singing, battle-ready crowds?
Sing it again, sing it again today,
One of the simple, anxious songs
You murmured when, filled with anger,
You awaited the upcoming clash.

We all love you, generous Peace, etc.

Like a wave from the wild North Sea,
Foaming and raging came our enemy;
Proud of his victories, proud of his crew,
He aimed to take us down:
But, from Denmark’s strong lines of oak,
A terrible, terrible volley erupted;
Then his mast crashed down,
His bravery faded fast;
And the wave, which mirrored his fierce anger,
Was now stained with his blood.

This is Denmark's holiday;
Dance, you maidens!
Sing, you men!
Strum, you harp players!
Blush, you heroes!
This is Denmark's holiday.

But, listen! What sobbing and sad sounds
Are mingling with our songs of joyful celebration!
Quiet, quiet, be still;
A group of women in white are slowly approaching,
With lily crowns around their golden hair,
With heavy tears in their hollow eyes;
Broken and trembling sounds
The sorrowful song,
Accompanied by gentle harp tones.

Love, with its rosy chains,
Tied us tightly together;
Pure, unblended joy
We found here with gratitude.
Chest to chest, we embraced,
Pressing close in our youth;
Bright the moon rose, then,
Happy to see our happiness.

Denmark's honor called,
Loud the cannon roared;
They who we admired
Perished in the battle.
Sweet is, serious, your sleep,
Free from worry and noise;
Short are earthly troubles,—
Endless are heaven's joys.

From the heavenly, clear, invisible home
Our voices come:
No joy can compare to the joy that fills
Our seraph veins.
Loved ones, loved ones, don’t weep for us,
Soon you will join us here;
High above the farthest stars
The sun of affection will shine even brighter:
Brothers, brothers, it is sweet to die
For the land of our birth, and the one we adore.
Blessed are you who, like us, shall fall;
The righteous Jehovah rewards, above,
Courage and love:
Hallelujah, may peace be with you all!

Sigvald Jarl was a well-known Sea Rover who lived at Jomsborg in Denmark when he wasn't out on his raiding missions. He struck fear into the hearts of the Norwegian coasts, which he pillaged and plundered almost at will. Hacon Jarl, who was on the Norwegian throne at the time, learned that Sigvald was planning a major invasion. Knowing he couldn't fight him off, he turned to his God, Thorgerd, and sacrificed his son Erling. The way Thorgerd helped him and his forces when the Danes arrived can best be understood through the bold song inspired by the event, and the following is a weak attempt to translate it.

When we jumped from our ships,
I heard, shocked with fear,
The storm waking Thorgerd,
Breaking from Northern mists;
Blending with flinty shards,
Gigantic hail came down,
And thickly and fiercely rattled
Against us in battle.

To help the aggressive maces,
It floated in our faces;
It floated, bringing death,
And blood spilled out like water—
Spilled stinking, red, and horrifying,
From battered cheeks and foreheads;
We swung our swords, but no one
Can withstand hail and enemies.

And demon Thorgerd, furious
To see us still fighting,
Shot down from the heavens,
His arrows of blazing lightning;
Then our brave ones fell in numbers,
To cold, eternal sleep;
There lay the good and bold,
Famed for their combat skills.

Our captain, realizing,
Gave the signal to leave,
And with his ship sailed away,
Feeling down and heartbroken;
War, death, and panic,
Followed our departure;
We did our best, but no one
Can stand against hail and enemies.

According to Danish tradition, there’s a female Elf who lives in the elder tree. She leaves every midnight, takes a stroll through the fields, and returns before morning.

Though the oak is tall and has a strong trunk,
   Though its branches stretch far and wide,
   Though the poplar reaches high,
I have no song for them.
   A theme that shines brighter would be
   The charming, charming elder tree,
Where I sit back in its shade;—
   It hides a witch in its bark,
   A beautiful witch who haunts the night,
And fills my mind with love.

When ghosts leave their graves at midnight,
And every phantom stirs;
When mermaids rise and sing sweetly
In harmony with the waves;
When Palnatoka, [29] on his horse,
Chases the elves across the meadow,
Or gallops, gallops over the sea,
The witch in the elder's bark,
The beautiful witch who haunts the night,
Comes out, comes out to me.

Of leaves the fairies make our bed;
The knight, who decays beneath the elm, [30]
Jumps up with spear and rusty helmet,—
By him the grace is said;
And even though her kiss can be cold at times,
And doesn't smell like earthly places,
Though her gaze is intense, still
The witch within the elder's bark,
The beautiful witch who haunts the dark,
I cherish, and always will.

Yet, once I loved a mortal girl,
And gazed, captivated, at her beauty,
Often wrapped in each other's arms,
Together, here we wandered;—
But soon, she found a handsomer guy,
And I a prettier girl, for sure!
And one who’s truer, truer to me,
The witch within the elder tree,
The lovely witch who lurks in the dark,
Has been more loyal to me.

Oh restless tonight are my dreams;
I still have life, but not happiness;
My heart in my chest is withered,
And sorrow weighs heavily on me.
For cold, in her grave, is lying
The girl I looked at so fondly,
Whose teeth were as white as chalk,
Whose voice was sweeter than harp music.
Like foam that settles on the water,
Just where the wild swan has been playing;
Like snow melted by the sun,
My love, you were gone so suddenly.
I shed salty tears in abundance,
When memories come rushing back to me
That eye, like the calm blue sky;
That cheek, like a rose in full bloom.
Sweet object of my deepest affection,
Why couldn’t your beauty protect you?
Why, sparing so many thorns,
Did Death take such a lovely flower?
Here I pine, forlorn and abandoned,
Where I once was cheerful and happy:
No joy will ever shine on my face,
Until my last hour arrives.
Oh, like the top grain on the ear of corn,
Or like the young pine among the bushes;
Or like the moon among the shining stars,
You were, oh my love, among women!

The squirrel that's showing off
Among the green leaves,
Often, with its rustle,
The hunter gets tricked;
Who jumps—and believing
That prey is close,
His heart, for a moment,
Beats with excitement.

“Now, be brave!” he whispers,
And crouching under
A lightning-struck linden,
He waits for his enemy:
“Ha! joy to the hunter;
A huge bear
Is coming right now,
And asks me to get ready.

“Hear! hear! for the king
Of the woods, soon,
Will let out his roar,
Deep and powerful:”
Saying this, he looks
Closely around;
But, to his dismay!
He hears not a thing:

Except when, at times,
The wind picks up sharply
Carries branches from the bushes,
Across the lonely hill.
Poor you, squirrel,
Among the green leaves,
Often your loud rustle
Tricks the hunter.

King Christian stood next to the mast;
Smoke mixed with flames,
Hung over his cannons, which rattled quickly
Against the Goths as they passed:
Then all the enemy sails and masts
Sunk into smoke and flames.
“Run!” shouted the enemy: “run! everyone who can,
Don't take on Denmark’s Christian,
The terrifying, unfair battle.”

Niels Juul looked out and shouted,
“Quick! Now’s the time:”
He raised his banner high,
And his enemies pressed from all sides;
And loud above the battle he shouted,
“Quick! Now’s the time.”
“Run!” said the enemy, “It’s
Fortune’s way,
To crown Denmark’s Juul
With Glory’s majestic wreath.”

Once, Baltic, when the musket's sound
Rang through the sky,
Down to your depths heroes fell
And gasped amid the stormy swell;
While, from the shore, a piercing yell
Rang through the sky!
“God help me,” cried our Tordenskiold;
“Proud enemies, you are only foolishly bold;
Strike, strike, at me, or run!”

You, Danish path to fame and power,
Dark-rolling wave,
Welcome a friend who considers as trivial
The dangers of the fierce battle;
Who faces, like you, the storm's strength;
Dark rolling wave,
O swiftly carry my boat along,
Until, crowned with victory, lulled with song,
I reach my destination—the grave.

Here I stand, the pride of the park,
In winter with snow on my frozen bark;
In spring among the flowers that smiling she spread,
And among my own leaves when summer had gone.
For three hundred years I’ve reached for the sky,
For three hundred years I’ve sadly looked by
At Nature's vast spread out scene;
At rushing rivers and meadows so green,
Though I've always been eager to roam,
I've never been able to move from my home.

They took down my brother, who stood by my side,
And threw his arms out wide, so wide;
How I envy him, for how blessed is he,
As the keel of a ship, he sails so free
Around the entire monstrous earth;
But I remain stuck in the place where I was born.
I used to be too proud to complain,
But I’ve become weak from age and pain;
So I often let out my sorrows,
When the wild wind blows through my branches.

A night like this, so calm and clear,
I haven't seen in many years;
The white doe and her gentle fawn
Are playing on the moonlit lawn;
And there, by my old tree's base,
Two lovers sit, both in silence, in place:
Her arm wraps around his young neck,
With no one around to disrupt their connection.
This night would nearly lift my heavy heart,
If I had even one hope or fear to start.

A guy who can talk in twenty languages
And walk sixty miles in a day;
Drink a pint of rum in one go,
And then feel perfectly fine and talkative,
Can sing a song and write a verse,
And tell stories of Northern kings;
Who will never abandon his friend,
As long as he can still clench his fist;
And, although he prefers to avoid fighting
Will take on a Dutchman with a knife.
Oh, that’s exactly the guy for me,
And he stands a solid six-foot-three.

A braver person has never been born
Since God first shaped man from the earth:
Oh, I know him well,
As Ferroe’s darkened rocks can show.
Who was it that, at Suderöe,
Did the deed that no one else dared to do?
Who was it, when the Boff [31] had broken,
And trapped me in its cursed embrace—
Who was it that rushed into the waves,
With desperate determination, to save my life?
Who was it that threw the rope to me?
Oh, who but the honest six-foot-three!

Who taught my eager tongue,
The songs that Braga [32] created and sang?
Who revealed to me the treasure
Of dark, mystical Runic knowledge,
And showed me how to pass my time
With Denmark’s ancient and enchanting poems:
To rest in thought in Elvir's shades,
And hear the melodies of fairy maidens;
Or climb to the peak of Dovrefeld,
Where magical knights gathered?
Who did all this for me?
Oh, who, but the honest six-foot-three!

Wherever fate sends me,
Far, far from social happiness and home;
In the scorching sands of Africa,
Or the icy lands of Kamschatka;
Bitten by the poison-laden breeze,
Or gusts that freeze the seas;
In a humble cottage or a grand hall,
In a beggar’s rags or royal robes,
Among thieves or good people,
In a busy town or a forest hideout,
I will never forget
What I owe to six-foot three.

That figure that moves with majestic grace;
That wild, though not unattractive, face;
That voice which sometimes has a tone
Softer than a dove's moan,
At other times, louder than the storm
That pounds against the side of old Cairn Gorm; [33]
That hand, as white as fresh-fallen snow,
Yet capable of taking down the strongest foe;
And, last but not least, that noble heart,
That would never stray from the path of honor,
Will never be forgotten by me—
So goodbye, honest six-foot three!

Look, a pale, fluffy cloud
Spreads far along the East;
Every star has dimmed its light,
Recently shining overhead.
On the leaves that droop so low,
Drops of crystal water shine;
Yawning wide, the farmer slowly
Drives his sluggish team to the field.
The forest looks gloomy, missing
The song of birds that are quietly sleeping;
No rough farmer is yet attacking,
With his bill, the beech’s roots.
Night's frightening ghostly hour
Flies backward through time’s circle;
No loud clock from the mossy tower
Calls the dead to wake and rise.
Worn out from the midnight chaos,
Mysterious Nature is now resting;
Decaying bodies lie in peace,
Under their damp and low tombstones;
Sad and cold the wind is sighing
Through the reeds that border the pool,
Everything around looks dead or dying,
Wrapped in sorrow, dressed in mourning.

Rose-colored hues on the sky's high arch
Are starting to blend with the blue and gray.
The sun is beginning his amazing journey,
And the birds in the forests sing from the trees.
Cheerfully, the rose
Is opening up
Each of her petals to the brightening light.
Waves on the lake
Rise, sparkle, and crash:
Oh Venus, oh Venus, your shrine is ready,
Down in the valley shaded by the grove;
Where, all day long, the nightingale sings, unbothered,
Her sweet-toned song of joy and love.

Innocence smiles brighter than the lark,
   And the weight of guilt becomes calm again;
Nightmares and visions, the demons of the night,
   Have left the blood and have flown from the mind.
         Higher the sun
         Up heaven has run,
   Shining so intensely that we feel it with pain;
         Man, herb, and flower,
         Weaken under its power.
O Venus, O Venus, your shrine is ready,
   Deep in the valley shaded by the grove
Where, all day long, Philomel sings, unafraid,
   Her silver-toned song of joy and love.

What darkens, what darkens?—it’s heaven’s high roof:
What lightens?—it’s Heckla’s flame, shooting up:
The proud, the majestic, the rugged old Thor,
The mightiest giant the North ever knew,
Transformed into a mountain, stands there in the field,
With ice for his armor, and rock for his shield;
With thunder for a voice, and fire for a tongue,
He stands there, so fearsome, with vapor hanging over.
On the other side of the raging sea
Black Vulcan, as arrogant as ever, stands,
Transformed into a mountain, called Etna by name,
Which constantly erupts oceans of flame.
They have spilled much blood and caused a lot of harm,
For both, when the old religions faded away,
Joined their wild strength to destroy the new race,
Who boldly began to desecrate their shrines.
O, Jesus of Nazareth, draw forth the blade
Of vengeance, and rush to aid your worshippers;
Defeat the old gods, tear apart their armor—
Amen!—brother Christians, why do you look so pale?

Pale was the moon as it cast its light
Over the landscape far and wide;
Calmly bright, without a worry,
Emma wandered by my side.

Night’s sorrowful birds sang their harsh notes,
Perched low among the trees;
Emma’s white dress fluttered
Gracefully in the rising breeze:

Then, in sweetness beyond what humans know,
Sang a voice a sad song,
As we passed through the church’s entrance,
Look, a ghostly figure stood there!

“Emma, come, your mother’s calling;
Alone I lie in the night and gloom,
While the sun and moonbeams, falling,
Shine upon my marble tomb.”

Emma stared at the figure,—
Wanted to speak, but struggled to,
Pressed my hand with loving strength,
Trembled—faltered—gasped—and died!

Home I carried my unfortunate girl,
Home I brought her in misery;
Chilly winds, heavy with night dew,
Whispered through her flowing hair.

Plunging then into the forest,
Soon I found the majestic tree,
Under which, when the heat was strongest,
She used to sit with me.

Down my cheek ran tears in fever,
While I chopped its stem with an axe;
Soon it fell, and I with a lever
Rolled it straight to Emma’s hut.

Kissed her often, and love-struck
Sang a song in the wildest tones;
While I shaped the oak boards,
Doomed to cover her beautiful bones.

There I went to the shelter,
Where she had her lone beehive;
Morning light filled the trees and flowers,
Everything around me seemed alive.

Stung by bees in a thousand places,
I took the yellow comb;
Emma, dressed in all her beauty,
Seemed to wander past my sight.

Soon I made a candle out of wax,
It cast its light over my love,
Until the night arrived, wrapped in mist,
When I laid her body in the grave.

Deep below me sank the coffin,
While my tears fell as fast as rain;
It sank deep, and I often
Thought about pulling it up again.

As soon as the cheerful stars,
Next evening lit up the sky,
I sadly went to the cemetery,
Where my true love was buried.

Then, in a sweetness beyond human,
Sang a voice a sorrowful tune;
Underneath the church’s entrance
Emma stood in her funeral dress.

“Louis! Come! Your love is calling;
Here I lie alone in the night and gloom,
While the sun and moonbeams, falling,
Shine upon my humble tomb.”

“Emma! dear!” I called out happily,
“Take me with you beneath the ground;
Don't leave me to suffer in sadness,
Here on this hated piece of earth.”

“Death should only come to the old,
Yet, my Louis, you will die,
When the stars shine in glory again,
Upon the midnight sky.”

Tears adorned her long eyelashes,
While she kissed my pale face;
Then, like a flame that fades over ashes,
Suddenly, the girl was gone.

Therefore, I gathered painted violets,
Which will cover my lifeless body,
When tonight, the stars have summoned me
To joys that last forever.

How beautiful you are with your foamy hair,
And still the warm blood in my chest turns cold,
As you crash down from your home,
Amid the roar of the echoing forest and hill.

The pine trees shake—they bend to your force,
And scatter their wide destruction across the ground,
The rocks scatter before you—you grab the rocks,
And toss them around like pebbles with disdain.

The sunbeams have dressed you in beautiful colors,
They blend with the hues of the rainbow
Those floating columns of vapor that rise
From the bubbling cauldron below.

But why are you searching for the ocean's dark depths?
If greatness brings happiness, it must be here,
When you emerge from the depths of the rock-surrounded mine
You leap, and everything answers your call.

Beware, O torrent, of that dark sea over there,
Because there you must huddle under tyranny’s rule,
Here you are lonely, and beautiful, and free—
Loud as a thunderclap, strong as a god.

Sure, here’s the modernized text: Yeah, it’s nice, at night or during the day,
To look at the sea and its distant bays,
When lit up by the light of the wandering moon,
Or glowing with the gold of the summer sun.

But, torrent, what is it? What is it?—look
That brightness as nothing but a lure and a trap,
What is the summer sun’s purple and gold
To someone who does not breathe the air in pure freedom?

Abandon, abandon, your reckless path—
But you keep rushing down—my words are in vain,
Remember that the ever-changing winds control
The choppy surface of the opportunistic sea.

Then don't rush, O river, to that dark sea,
Because there you must hide under tyranny's rod;
Here you are alone, and beautiful, and free—
Loud as a thunderclap, strong as a god.

O the power of Runic verses,
   O the great strength of song
Can't prevent all the curses
   That come with being human.

Slaughtered leaders, who beneath
Piles of marble have long rested,
Song can break your tomb apart,
Bring you back to life and strength again.

When he's trapped and about to die,
The fierce serpent coils up tight,
Music can set him free, oh my,
He’ll uncoil fast and strike with might.

When from the stronghold and battle tower,
Flames reach up to the sky,
Song has a stronger influence over them,
Than the vapors falling rain.

It can extinguish the fire
Walking over the creations;
But neither song nor spell
Can soothe love’s cruel pain.

O the power of Runic verses,
   O the great strength of song
Can't overcome all the curses
   That come with being human.

Perhaps it’s foolish, but still I feel
My heartstrings tremble, my senses spin,
Thinking how much like a rushing river we move
Closer and closer to that frightening change,
When soul and spirit dissipate,
And leave nothing more than lifeless clay.

Yield, beauty, yield; for the grave is open,
And horrifyingly changes how you appear,—
For oh! don’t think those youthful charms
Will stay untouched in its cold embrace,
And don’t believe that there, the rose of love
Will blossom on your face like it does here above.

Let anyone who struts around at vanity fair,
In clothes that rival the brightness of a tulip,
Consider the wreath of leaves that will soon surround
His fading forehead;
Think about each lament the priests will say
When his lifeless body is taken away.

Let anyone who seeks wealth without fear of hard work think about this: the gold they earn will shine brightly, even after they and their entire family are gone. Even if someone rants and boasts, we are ultimately just ashes at best.

The sun shines so brightly on the Nile’s golden waters,
That the palm trees can no longer protect us from its rays;
Now the longing for home hits us hard,
And our group quickly turns northward.

Now dim below us, we see through the distance
The green grassy land and the ocean's deep blue;
There storms and constant disasters happen,
While we move through the skies free and unbothered.

Look, high in the mountains a meadow is spread,
And there we settle down, and make our bed;
There we hatch our eggs, and beneath the cold pole
We wait while the summer months pass us by.

No hunter, wanting to make us his target,
invades our lonely valley by night or by day;
But green-cloaked fairies hold their joyful parties,
and without fear, the tiny [34] hammers its gold.

But when pale winter, once again on the rocks
Shakes down in a shower the snow from his hair,
Then comes the craving for warmth, in full force,
And Southward our group quickly changes its
course.

To the green Savannah and palm-tree-lined plains,
Where the Nile flows with its waters, we rush back again;
We’ll stay there until the summer sun, getting too intense,
Makes us long for our homeland, surrounded by hills.

O you, who, among the forest trees,
With your sweet, trembling song,
Could instantly bring soothing ease,
To my heart's painful longing:
You droop now in dull silence,
With a shattered body and broken string,
While here, helpless, beneath the branches,
I sit, and weakly try to sing.

The moon no longer lights up the ground;
In the night and mist, my song fades away;
For with your sweet and soothing sound
All at once, her silver glow is gone:
Oh soon, oh soon, this sad heart,
Which beats so softly and bleeds so freely,
Will be overwhelmed by its heavy pain,
Broken, oh ruined harp, just like you!

Do you see that high cliff's edge,
Where a traveler is slowly climbing up,
Crowned by an ancient ruin,
That shakes when the sharp winds blow;
That’s an old knight’s stronghold,—
Sadly, it stands, abandoned, cold;
And it seems to look back,
Back to those heroic days,
When young knights, [35] fully armed,
And beautiful maidens crowded around it.

You, in the tower, might see a hole;
A window there has ceased to exist.
From that spot, a bright young woman leaned,
In the evening’s red and fading light,
And stared intently down the path,
Where her cheerful lover should come:
But, time flies on rapid wings—
In the distance, a church stands tall,
Inside are two marble stones,
That rest above the lovers’ remains.
But look, the wanderer, in pain,
Has reached the place he longed to reach;
While the sun, behind the ruined walls,
Sinks into sacred nature.

Look over there, two rival nobles are fighting,
With the fury of tigers and the strength of giants.
There’s no smoke visible, no shots fired,
Because guns and gunpowder hadn’t been invented yet.
Back then, when enemies went to war,
They would either win or lose with spear and sword:
They shout a fierce, heroic song,
And each tries to defeat the other.
Often, to destroy itself,
Nature uses her own hand.
There, the hill erupts with fiery sparks,
And the earth shakes with incredible force:
There, lightning flashes through the deep blue sky,
And ocean waves crash wildly:
There, men strain against each other,
Inflicting death, wounds, and pain.
Oh Nature! Show less of your hate
And more of your kindness.

How dark the air is around;
We are no longer above the ground;
But down we go inside the hill,
Whose springs fill our ears with hissing sounds.
Look, there, how rich the reddish gold
S winds through the damp soil
And hard green stone. By the torchlight,
The harvest there is being cut down.
But don’t you see that gathering cloud,
Coming towards them, pale and proud;
It holds the spirit of the hill,
Who brings death in its chilly hand:
If they don’t fall down quickly,
It will definitely slay them all;
For it's seriously angry,
Because they disturb its solitude:
Because they take away its treasure,
And spread light over its gloomy lair.
It’s white, and Kobbold is the name
That it has claimed since ancient times.

Now, let's go back in time,
For many hundreds of years, I think.
A gothic room greets your eyes:
A candle flickers weakly in the night;
You see a ghostly man at the table,
With his hand on his temples, deep in thought:
Papers, faded and worn with age;
Ancient shields covered in writing;
Tree bark, with half-worn symbols;
Stones marked with runes and characters;
Things of more value than you realize,
Are piled up on the huge table there.
He now gazes in a trance,
Through the window, into the vastness of nature.
Whenever we sit at lonely midnight,
And stare out into the uncertain light,
As the pale moon looks down over
Ruined cloisters and crumbling towers,
Strangely wonderful feelings wash over us;
The past and the future come alive before us;
The present fades away,
Dressed in insignificance.
He looks up into the heights of nature,
The noble man with his bright eye;
He gazes up at the starry skies,
Where, sooner or later, we hope to ascend;
And now he quickly picks up the pen,
And the spirit of the past flows from it quickly;
The scattered Gothic songs he transforms into
An epic that makes every heart glow.
Thanks to the old monk for working so hard—
They call him Saxo Grammaticus.

An open field stretches out in front of you,
A gust of wind sighs over its surface,
Now everything is still, everything seems asleep;
In the middle of the field, there's a mound,
On the mound stand Runic stones,
Beneath them lie gigantic bones.
Since Arild’s time, that mound has stood there,
But now it’s carefully cultivated,
So its owner can someday
Harvest golden corn from it.
He’s often tried, the greedy soul,
To roll the mighty stones away,
Considering them useless burdens on his land;
But they turned out to be too big for that.
Look, look! The moon peeks through clouds
And gazes down at the black letters:
And when the ghost lifts its form,
The moon shines on its bursting tears—
For oh! the moon is an ancient man,
Words can never fully describe him,
He shines just as calmly and brightly,
In the witching hour of the night,
On the site of love and joy,
And on the grim gallows tree.
He stares at each Rune,
Before hurrying off through fields of air;
He understands those signs, I bet,
Whose meaning lies in times long past;
And if he could speak,
No doubt the old man could share
Strange tales of things that have happened on earth,
That fame has never mentioned;
But since he can only convey those events
With just a look, with just a look alone,
He awakens from his lofty height
Yearning for the dark days gone by.

This piece isn't translated for the feelings it conveys, but for its poetic beauty. Even though the journey of life can be tough and filled with challenges, the mind can always find comfort by looking ahead to what comes next. A mind that dismisses the idea of an afterlife can only blame itself for its complete misery and hopelessness.

The evening shadows settle over the grave
Where I sit; it’s no ordinary mound,—
Beneath its sod are the bones of someone,
Who, tired of life and suffering, snuffed out
The vital spark that burned within him.

The shadows grow darker, and the reddish hue
That recently filled the western sky
Has now faded to a single line,
And here I am, alone, listening to
The sounds of the forest and the buzz of the trees.

This is the time to think of nature’s God,
When birds and fountains, streams and woods, unite
Their various-sounding voices in his praise:
Shall man alone refuse to sing it—yes,
For man, alone, has nothing to thank him for.

There’s no joy he gives us on earth
That isn’t mixed with bitterness and pain,
Only when youth is gone, and age arrives,
Do we find peace—peace is not happiness,
Then tell me, God, what I have to thank you for.

But to go back to him who lies below—
He had a passionate, warm heart,
And was made for love—there was no prejudice there;
He wandered the world to find a heart
That felt like his, he searched and did not find it.

Or if he found it, fate intervened,
And took the treasured thing away from him,
Or filled his mind with weak and pointless thoughts—
Could he endure all this? Oh, no! He died,—
Died by the hand that harmed no one but himself.

And did he die without anyone feeling sorry for him or crying for him,—
Most likely, because there are people who believe
It’s wrong for a man to take what belongs to him—
And it was for this reason they buried him here,
In this lovely, unholy place.

There comes a group of young women and men
Returning from work—listen! they stop their song,
And, pointing to the grave, with shaky hands,
They walk around it, thinking that in me
They see the ghost of the suicide—
Which, as the stories say, roams here.

The Right Honorable the Earl of Albemarle

T. Amyot, Esq., London

F. Arden, Esq. London, 5 copies

Mr. A. Austin

The Right Reverend Henry Bathurst, Lord Bishop of Norwich

Mr. W. Bacon

Mr. A. Barnard

Mr. P. Barnes

Mr. Barwell

Mr. Bell, Diss

N. Bolingbroke, Esq.

J. Bowring, Esq., Hackney

W. Burrows, Esq., Stoke