Sevenlong years as a lowly squireI served mine own liege-lord;But of his daughter fair to seeThey told me never a word.(And is she glad, then I rejoice.)Ne’er did I hear a word of her,Nor see the lovely lass,Till Easter-day in the morningWhen she should go to Mass.Thus it went from EasterAll unto Whitsuntide;The maiden donned her fairest weedUnto the kirk to ride.The maiden donned her fairest weedUnto the kirk to ride;I set my saddle on my steedAnd went at the maiden’s sideThere, as I rode by the maiden’s side,Like red gold shone her hair;And every man right well might markMy heart was full of care.We rode across the lee-landTo the good greenwood amain,And never did my hand loose holdOf the maiden’s bridle-rein.“Hold off, hold off, thou fair young squire,And do not ride so near!Well can I see thy foolish heartDoth hold me all too dear.”“I may not eat, I may not drink,I dwell in dule and pine—And all the night and every night,I dream that thou art mine.“Good sooth, I am but a poor young squire—God make me rich and great!God give me land, as I have love,To be thy worthy mate!”“Now dress thee in thy fairest weed,Speak not to living wight—For I will pray my father dear,And he will dub thee knight.“Then come into the ladies’ bower,And stand thou not too near,That never a living wight may knowHow thou dost hold me dear.”I went into the ladies’ bower,Right sore afraid was I!I looked not at my own true loveLest the serving-maid should spy.She smiled, the lovely lady,Beneath her veil so thin;“Now who is he, the stranger squire,That comes so boldly in?”Now thanks be to the kindly Count,So leal a lord was he!He gave away his daughter dearMy beauteous bride to be.(And is she glad, then I rejoice.)
Sevenlong years as a lowly squireI served mine own liege-lord;But of his daughter fair to seeThey told me never a word.(And is she glad, then I rejoice.)Ne’er did I hear a word of her,Nor see the lovely lass,Till Easter-day in the morningWhen she should go to Mass.Thus it went from EasterAll unto Whitsuntide;The maiden donned her fairest weedUnto the kirk to ride.The maiden donned her fairest weedUnto the kirk to ride;I set my saddle on my steedAnd went at the maiden’s sideThere, as I rode by the maiden’s side,Like red gold shone her hair;And every man right well might markMy heart was full of care.We rode across the lee-landTo the good greenwood amain,And never did my hand loose holdOf the maiden’s bridle-rein.“Hold off, hold off, thou fair young squire,And do not ride so near!Well can I see thy foolish heartDoth hold me all too dear.”“I may not eat, I may not drink,I dwell in dule and pine—And all the night and every night,I dream that thou art mine.“Good sooth, I am but a poor young squire—God make me rich and great!God give me land, as I have love,To be thy worthy mate!”“Now dress thee in thy fairest weed,Speak not to living wight—For I will pray my father dear,And he will dub thee knight.“Then come into the ladies’ bower,And stand thou not too near,That never a living wight may knowHow thou dost hold me dear.”I went into the ladies’ bower,Right sore afraid was I!I looked not at my own true loveLest the serving-maid should spy.She smiled, the lovely lady,Beneath her veil so thin;“Now who is he, the stranger squire,That comes so boldly in?”Now thanks be to the kindly Count,So leal a lord was he!He gave away his daughter dearMy beauteous bride to be.(And is she glad, then I rejoice.)
Sevenlong years as a lowly squireI served mine own liege-lord;But of his daughter fair to seeThey told me never a word.(And is she glad, then I rejoice.)
Ne’er did I hear a word of her,Nor see the lovely lass,Till Easter-day in the morningWhen she should go to Mass.
Thus it went from EasterAll unto Whitsuntide;The maiden donned her fairest weedUnto the kirk to ride.
The maiden donned her fairest weedUnto the kirk to ride;I set my saddle on my steedAnd went at the maiden’s side
There, as I rode by the maiden’s side,Like red gold shone her hair;And every man right well might markMy heart was full of care.
We rode across the lee-landTo the good greenwood amain,And never did my hand loose holdOf the maiden’s bridle-rein.
“Hold off, hold off, thou fair young squire,And do not ride so near!Well can I see thy foolish heartDoth hold me all too dear.”
“I may not eat, I may not drink,I dwell in dule and pine—And all the night and every night,I dream that thou art mine.
“Good sooth, I am but a poor young squire—God make me rich and great!God give me land, as I have love,To be thy worthy mate!”
“Now dress thee in thy fairest weed,Speak not to living wight—For I will pray my father dear,And he will dub thee knight.
“Then come into the ladies’ bower,And stand thou not too near,That never a living wight may knowHow thou dost hold me dear.”
I went into the ladies’ bower,Right sore afraid was I!I looked not at my own true loveLest the serving-maid should spy.
She smiled, the lovely lady,Beneath her veil so thin;“Now who is he, the stranger squire,That comes so boldly in?”
Now thanks be to the kindly Count,So leal a lord was he!He gave away his daughter dearMy beauteous bride to be.(And is she glad, then I rejoice.)
Thegood ship lies on the lee-land,And under her grows the grass,Oh never so rash a steersmanAs Sir John Remorsson was!(For the sea she taketh so many.)The King sits up in RibeAnd a letter writeth he;He bids his gallant captainsMake ready for the sea.It was Sir John RemorssonPut on his armour bright—“The man is faithless to his kingThat will not sail to-night!”It was Sir John RemorssonThat girt him with his sword—“The man who will not sail to-dayIs faithless to his lord!“To-night will we make merryAnd drink the foaming ale,And if the favouring weather hold,To-morrow we’ll set sail.”It was the skipper HogenLooked to the sky amain—“He that will sail the sea to-dayWill ne’er come home again!”It was Sir John RemorssonTo the haven cried aloud—“Up with your sails, ye Danish men,In the great name of God!”They had not sailed from land a league—The waves they ran so high—All sad sat skipper HogenWith the salt tear in his eye.They had not sailed from land a league—The waves they ran so deep—All sad sat skipper Hogen,And sorely did he weep.“Where is the doughty championYestre’en that talked so gay?Let him now take the helm in hand,For the anchor is reft away.“Where is the doughty championThat talked so loud last even?Let him now take the helm in hand,For the sail is rent and riven.“Now we will cast the lots around,And bide by heaven’s word;Is there a man of evil life,We’ll heave him overboard.”And straight they cast the lots aroundTo see who worked them woe;And the lot has fallen on good Sir JohnAll overboard to go.“So far, so far from land are we,With never a priest anear!But I will make my shrift aloud,And trust that God will hear.”It was Sir John RemorssonFell on his bended knee,And there he made his shrift aloudBefore the mainmast tree.“Full many a wife have I beguiled,And maidens bright of lee—But never, ah never, good sooth, I thoughtThat I should die by sea!“Many a maiden have I beguiled,And many a loving wife—But never, ah never, good sooth, I thoughtThat the sea would have my life!“The merciful Christ in heaven aboveI pray to pity me,For well I wot my sinful soulA heavy weird must dree.“If ever a one of you comes to land,And meets my love of yore,Tell her to wed whene’er she may—She’ll see my face no more.“If ever a one of you comes to landAnd meets my mother dear,Tell her I dwell in the king his courtIn mirth and goodly cheer!”Seven and seventy there they sailedOver the billows blue;And only five came home againOf those liege-men tall and true.Now we will up to the goodly kirk,High God His grace to prayAll for the soul of good Sir John,For his corse is cast away.All out, all out by BoringholmThe tides they run amain,And there floats many a goodly corseWill ne’er come home again!(For the sea she taketh so many.)
Thegood ship lies on the lee-land,And under her grows the grass,Oh never so rash a steersmanAs Sir John Remorsson was!(For the sea she taketh so many.)The King sits up in RibeAnd a letter writeth he;He bids his gallant captainsMake ready for the sea.It was Sir John RemorssonPut on his armour bright—“The man is faithless to his kingThat will not sail to-night!”It was Sir John RemorssonThat girt him with his sword—“The man who will not sail to-dayIs faithless to his lord!“To-night will we make merryAnd drink the foaming ale,And if the favouring weather hold,To-morrow we’ll set sail.”It was the skipper HogenLooked to the sky amain—“He that will sail the sea to-dayWill ne’er come home again!”It was Sir John RemorssonTo the haven cried aloud—“Up with your sails, ye Danish men,In the great name of God!”They had not sailed from land a league—The waves they ran so high—All sad sat skipper HogenWith the salt tear in his eye.They had not sailed from land a league—The waves they ran so deep—All sad sat skipper Hogen,And sorely did he weep.“Where is the doughty championYestre’en that talked so gay?Let him now take the helm in hand,For the anchor is reft away.“Where is the doughty championThat talked so loud last even?Let him now take the helm in hand,For the sail is rent and riven.“Now we will cast the lots around,And bide by heaven’s word;Is there a man of evil life,We’ll heave him overboard.”And straight they cast the lots aroundTo see who worked them woe;And the lot has fallen on good Sir JohnAll overboard to go.“So far, so far from land are we,With never a priest anear!But I will make my shrift aloud,And trust that God will hear.”It was Sir John RemorssonFell on his bended knee,And there he made his shrift aloudBefore the mainmast tree.“Full many a wife have I beguiled,And maidens bright of lee—But never, ah never, good sooth, I thoughtThat I should die by sea!“Many a maiden have I beguiled,And many a loving wife—But never, ah never, good sooth, I thoughtThat the sea would have my life!“The merciful Christ in heaven aboveI pray to pity me,For well I wot my sinful soulA heavy weird must dree.“If ever a one of you comes to land,And meets my love of yore,Tell her to wed whene’er she may—She’ll see my face no more.“If ever a one of you comes to landAnd meets my mother dear,Tell her I dwell in the king his courtIn mirth and goodly cheer!”Seven and seventy there they sailedOver the billows blue;And only five came home againOf those liege-men tall and true.Now we will up to the goodly kirk,High God His grace to prayAll for the soul of good Sir John,For his corse is cast away.All out, all out by BoringholmThe tides they run amain,And there floats many a goodly corseWill ne’er come home again!(For the sea she taketh so many.)
Thegood ship lies on the lee-land,And under her grows the grass,Oh never so rash a steersmanAs Sir John Remorsson was!(For the sea she taketh so many.)
The King sits up in RibeAnd a letter writeth he;He bids his gallant captainsMake ready for the sea.
It was Sir John RemorssonPut on his armour bright—“The man is faithless to his kingThat will not sail to-night!”
It was Sir John RemorssonThat girt him with his sword—“The man who will not sail to-dayIs faithless to his lord!
“To-night will we make merryAnd drink the foaming ale,And if the favouring weather hold,To-morrow we’ll set sail.”
It was the skipper HogenLooked to the sky amain—“He that will sail the sea to-dayWill ne’er come home again!”
It was Sir John RemorssonTo the haven cried aloud—“Up with your sails, ye Danish men,In the great name of God!”
They had not sailed from land a league—The waves they ran so high—All sad sat skipper HogenWith the salt tear in his eye.
They had not sailed from land a league—The waves they ran so deep—All sad sat skipper Hogen,And sorely did he weep.
“Where is the doughty championYestre’en that talked so gay?Let him now take the helm in hand,For the anchor is reft away.
“Where is the doughty championThat talked so loud last even?Let him now take the helm in hand,For the sail is rent and riven.
“Now we will cast the lots around,And bide by heaven’s word;Is there a man of evil life,We’ll heave him overboard.”
And straight they cast the lots aroundTo see who worked them woe;And the lot has fallen on good Sir JohnAll overboard to go.
“So far, so far from land are we,With never a priest anear!But I will make my shrift aloud,And trust that God will hear.”
It was Sir John RemorssonFell on his bended knee,And there he made his shrift aloudBefore the mainmast tree.
“Full many a wife have I beguiled,And maidens bright of lee—But never, ah never, good sooth, I thoughtThat I should die by sea!
“Many a maiden have I beguiled,And many a loving wife—But never, ah never, good sooth, I thoughtThat the sea would have my life!
“The merciful Christ in heaven aboveI pray to pity me,For well I wot my sinful soulA heavy weird must dree.
“If ever a one of you comes to land,And meets my love of yore,Tell her to wed whene’er she may—She’ll see my face no more.
“If ever a one of you comes to landAnd meets my mother dear,Tell her I dwell in the king his courtIn mirth and goodly cheer!”
Seven and seventy there they sailedOver the billows blue;And only five came home againOf those liege-men tall and true.
Now we will up to the goodly kirk,High God His grace to prayAll for the soul of good Sir John,For his corse is cast away.
All out, all out by BoringholmThe tides they run amain,And there floats many a goodly corseWill ne’er come home again!
(For the sea she taketh so many.)
SirDalebo built him a ship so great,The king himself had not its mate.They knew not Sir Dalebo Jonsen.The king from his window was looking forth so free;“Whose is the gallant ship a-sailing in the sea?”“Now that is Sir Dalebo Jonsen’s.”Up spake the king to his captains bold:“Bind him, Sir Dalebo, have him and hold!Bind him, Sir Dalebo Jonsen!”Up sprang the captains on their steeds of dapple grey,And forth they galloped faster than a bird can fly away—For they knew not Dalebo Jonsen!Now they are come to his castle fair and great,And there stood his mother a-tarrying by the gate;“Show us Sir Dalebo Jonsen!”“I cannot show you Dalebo, I know not where he be,For it is seven years and more he rode away from me—I can show him not, Dalebo Jonsen.”The captain pulled off his cap of blue,A thousand gold-pieces he told so true—“Now show us Sir Dalebo Jonsen!”“To the east o’ the court, in the bower above,Sir Dalebo talks with his own true love;Ye can find him there, Dalebo Jonsen.”They knocked at the door with shield and with spear;Up sprang Sir Dalebo: “Whom have we here?Who are these?” said Dalebo Jonsen.He put on his armour all shining and bright,Little Kirsten she clasped it, the best that she might—“Clasp it hard!” said Dalebo Jonsen.Sir Dalebo out of the window sprang—His gold-hilted sword at his girdle rang—“I come!” said Dalebo Jonsen.He struck down one, he struck down two—“’Tis thus the goodly game should go!Doth it like ye?” said Dalebo Jonsen.He struck down three, he struck down four—“The game goes better than of yore!What think ye?” said Dalebo Jonsen.Sir Dalebo he mounted his steed of dapple-grey,And forth he galloped faster than a bird can fly away,“Tread softly!” said Dalebo Jonsen.Sir Dalebo has come to his castle fair and great,There stood his mother, a-tarrying by the gate—“Good-morrow!” said Dalebo Jonsen.“Hearken, dear mother, to what I ask of thee!What didst thou with the money my foemen paid for me?I ask it, Sir Dalebo Jonsen.”“Ah, Dalebo, ah, Dalebo, and wilt thou work me woe?Never for all the world would I sell thee to thy foe—I sold thee not, Dalebo Jonsen.”He drew his shining sword, and struck her where she stood,And all so small he hewed her as the beech-leaves in the wood—“Lie thou there!” said Dalebo Jonsen.Sir Dalebo he mounted his steed of dapple-grey,And forth he galloped faster than a bird that flies away—For wroth was Sir Dalebo Jonsen.Sir Dalebo has ridden to the castle fair and great;There stood the King o’ Danes, a-tarrying by the gate.“Good greeting!” said Dalebo Jonsen.“Hearken now, Sir Dalebo, and look thou tell to me!Where are they, my champions, I sent of late to thee?Tell me that, Sir Dalebo Jonsen!”“Oh some of them are sick, and some of them are sore,And some are lying still, to rise again no more,That thou sentest to Dalebo Jonsen.“Go then, get thy salt, bid thy scullions ready be,If thou wilt salt the flesh that I have carved for thee!I rede thee, Sir Dalebo Jonsen.”“I pray thee, dear Sir Dalebo, now sheathe thy shining brand!For freely will I give thee mine only daughter’s hand!I pray thee, Sir Dalebo Jonsen!”“What reck I of your wenches, or your serving-maids so gay?I have mine own true sweetheart, that’s fairer far than they!I say it, Dalebo Jonsen!”
SirDalebo built him a ship so great,The king himself had not its mate.They knew not Sir Dalebo Jonsen.The king from his window was looking forth so free;“Whose is the gallant ship a-sailing in the sea?”“Now that is Sir Dalebo Jonsen’s.”Up spake the king to his captains bold:“Bind him, Sir Dalebo, have him and hold!Bind him, Sir Dalebo Jonsen!”Up sprang the captains on their steeds of dapple grey,And forth they galloped faster than a bird can fly away—For they knew not Dalebo Jonsen!Now they are come to his castle fair and great,And there stood his mother a-tarrying by the gate;“Show us Sir Dalebo Jonsen!”“I cannot show you Dalebo, I know not where he be,For it is seven years and more he rode away from me—I can show him not, Dalebo Jonsen.”The captain pulled off his cap of blue,A thousand gold-pieces he told so true—“Now show us Sir Dalebo Jonsen!”“To the east o’ the court, in the bower above,Sir Dalebo talks with his own true love;Ye can find him there, Dalebo Jonsen.”They knocked at the door with shield and with spear;Up sprang Sir Dalebo: “Whom have we here?Who are these?” said Dalebo Jonsen.He put on his armour all shining and bright,Little Kirsten she clasped it, the best that she might—“Clasp it hard!” said Dalebo Jonsen.Sir Dalebo out of the window sprang—His gold-hilted sword at his girdle rang—“I come!” said Dalebo Jonsen.He struck down one, he struck down two—“’Tis thus the goodly game should go!Doth it like ye?” said Dalebo Jonsen.He struck down three, he struck down four—“The game goes better than of yore!What think ye?” said Dalebo Jonsen.Sir Dalebo he mounted his steed of dapple-grey,And forth he galloped faster than a bird can fly away,“Tread softly!” said Dalebo Jonsen.Sir Dalebo has come to his castle fair and great,There stood his mother, a-tarrying by the gate—“Good-morrow!” said Dalebo Jonsen.“Hearken, dear mother, to what I ask of thee!What didst thou with the money my foemen paid for me?I ask it, Sir Dalebo Jonsen.”“Ah, Dalebo, ah, Dalebo, and wilt thou work me woe?Never for all the world would I sell thee to thy foe—I sold thee not, Dalebo Jonsen.”He drew his shining sword, and struck her where she stood,And all so small he hewed her as the beech-leaves in the wood—“Lie thou there!” said Dalebo Jonsen.Sir Dalebo he mounted his steed of dapple-grey,And forth he galloped faster than a bird that flies away—For wroth was Sir Dalebo Jonsen.Sir Dalebo has ridden to the castle fair and great;There stood the King o’ Danes, a-tarrying by the gate.“Good greeting!” said Dalebo Jonsen.“Hearken now, Sir Dalebo, and look thou tell to me!Where are they, my champions, I sent of late to thee?Tell me that, Sir Dalebo Jonsen!”“Oh some of them are sick, and some of them are sore,And some are lying still, to rise again no more,That thou sentest to Dalebo Jonsen.“Go then, get thy salt, bid thy scullions ready be,If thou wilt salt the flesh that I have carved for thee!I rede thee, Sir Dalebo Jonsen.”“I pray thee, dear Sir Dalebo, now sheathe thy shining brand!For freely will I give thee mine only daughter’s hand!I pray thee, Sir Dalebo Jonsen!”“What reck I of your wenches, or your serving-maids so gay?I have mine own true sweetheart, that’s fairer far than they!I say it, Dalebo Jonsen!”
SirDalebo built him a ship so great,The king himself had not its mate.They knew not Sir Dalebo Jonsen.
The king from his window was looking forth so free;“Whose is the gallant ship a-sailing in the sea?”“Now that is Sir Dalebo Jonsen’s.”
Up spake the king to his captains bold:“Bind him, Sir Dalebo, have him and hold!Bind him, Sir Dalebo Jonsen!”
Up sprang the captains on their steeds of dapple grey,And forth they galloped faster than a bird can fly away—For they knew not Dalebo Jonsen!
Now they are come to his castle fair and great,And there stood his mother a-tarrying by the gate;“Show us Sir Dalebo Jonsen!”
“I cannot show you Dalebo, I know not where he be,For it is seven years and more he rode away from me—I can show him not, Dalebo Jonsen.”
The captain pulled off his cap of blue,A thousand gold-pieces he told so true—“Now show us Sir Dalebo Jonsen!”
“To the east o’ the court, in the bower above,Sir Dalebo talks with his own true love;Ye can find him there, Dalebo Jonsen.”
They knocked at the door with shield and with spear;Up sprang Sir Dalebo: “Whom have we here?Who are these?” said Dalebo Jonsen.
He put on his armour all shining and bright,Little Kirsten she clasped it, the best that she might—“Clasp it hard!” said Dalebo Jonsen.
Sir Dalebo out of the window sprang—His gold-hilted sword at his girdle rang—“I come!” said Dalebo Jonsen.
He struck down one, he struck down two—“’Tis thus the goodly game should go!Doth it like ye?” said Dalebo Jonsen.
He struck down three, he struck down four—“The game goes better than of yore!What think ye?” said Dalebo Jonsen.
Sir Dalebo he mounted his steed of dapple-grey,And forth he galloped faster than a bird can fly away,“Tread softly!” said Dalebo Jonsen.
Sir Dalebo has come to his castle fair and great,There stood his mother, a-tarrying by the gate—“Good-morrow!” said Dalebo Jonsen.
“Hearken, dear mother, to what I ask of thee!What didst thou with the money my foemen paid for me?I ask it, Sir Dalebo Jonsen.”
“Ah, Dalebo, ah, Dalebo, and wilt thou work me woe?Never for all the world would I sell thee to thy foe—I sold thee not, Dalebo Jonsen.”
He drew his shining sword, and struck her where she stood,And all so small he hewed her as the beech-leaves in the wood—“Lie thou there!” said Dalebo Jonsen.
Sir Dalebo he mounted his steed of dapple-grey,And forth he galloped faster than a bird that flies away—For wroth was Sir Dalebo Jonsen.
Sir Dalebo has ridden to the castle fair and great;There stood the King o’ Danes, a-tarrying by the gate.“Good greeting!” said Dalebo Jonsen.
“Hearken now, Sir Dalebo, and look thou tell to me!Where are they, my champions, I sent of late to thee?Tell me that, Sir Dalebo Jonsen!”
“Oh some of them are sick, and some of them are sore,And some are lying still, to rise again no more,That thou sentest to Dalebo Jonsen.
“Go then, get thy salt, bid thy scullions ready be,If thou wilt salt the flesh that I have carved for thee!I rede thee, Sir Dalebo Jonsen.”
“I pray thee, dear Sir Dalebo, now sheathe thy shining brand!For freely will I give thee mine only daughter’s hand!I pray thee, Sir Dalebo Jonsen!”
“What reck I of your wenches, or your serving-maids so gay?I have mine own true sweetheart, that’s fairer far than they!I say it, Dalebo Jonsen!”
Oftwo true-lovers this tale I tell,That loved each other long and well.(We tread the dance so featly.)
Oftwo true-lovers this tale I tell,That loved each other long and well.(We tread the dance so featly.)
Oftwo true-lovers this tale I tell,That loved each other long and well.(We tread the dance so featly.)
Their love it nourished as fair and freeAs the branch grows green on the linden-tree.The knight to other lands must roam—The lady, she must bide at home.“I’ll plant a linden by thy bower,Leaves that beareth, and many a flower.“And when the linden sheds its leaves,Then shalt thou know thy true-love grieves.“And when the tree its flowers hath shed,Then shalt thou know thy love is dead.”When night was done and dawn was greyThe lady looked upon the brae.“God bless the tree, so green it grows!Well fares my love, where’er he goes!”That heard the wily serving-maid;Those lovers true hath she betrayed.The serving-maid, she up and spake:“I’ll spill your loves ere dawn shall break!”The serving-maid, so false was she,She tore the leaves from the linden-tree.When night was done and dawn was greyThe lady looked upon the brae.“The linden-tree hath shed its leaves—“Full well I wot my true-love grieves.“The linden-tree its flowers hath shed—I wot full well my love is dead.“And is he dead, my heart’s desire,My bower and all I’ll burn with fire.”She’s laid a brand her bower unto—She’s choked herself with the bolster blue.When all the bower in a bale did standHer love came a-sailing back to land.When all the bower was ashes and dustHer love put in to the selfsame coast.Unto his page he spake, the knight—“Whose bower is this that burns so bright?“If my true-love is dead, I say,God wot, I’ll die the self-same day.”Against a stone he set his hilt,And there his heart’s blood hath he spilt.(We tread the dance so featly.)
Their love it nourished as fair and freeAs the branch grows green on the linden-tree.The knight to other lands must roam—The lady, she must bide at home.“I’ll plant a linden by thy bower,Leaves that beareth, and many a flower.“And when the linden sheds its leaves,Then shalt thou know thy true-love grieves.“And when the tree its flowers hath shed,Then shalt thou know thy love is dead.”When night was done and dawn was greyThe lady looked upon the brae.“God bless the tree, so green it grows!Well fares my love, where’er he goes!”That heard the wily serving-maid;Those lovers true hath she betrayed.The serving-maid, she up and spake:“I’ll spill your loves ere dawn shall break!”The serving-maid, so false was she,She tore the leaves from the linden-tree.When night was done and dawn was greyThe lady looked upon the brae.“The linden-tree hath shed its leaves—“Full well I wot my true-love grieves.“The linden-tree its flowers hath shed—I wot full well my love is dead.“And is he dead, my heart’s desire,My bower and all I’ll burn with fire.”She’s laid a brand her bower unto—She’s choked herself with the bolster blue.When all the bower in a bale did standHer love came a-sailing back to land.When all the bower was ashes and dustHer love put in to the selfsame coast.Unto his page he spake, the knight—“Whose bower is this that burns so bright?“If my true-love is dead, I say,God wot, I’ll die the self-same day.”Against a stone he set his hilt,And there his heart’s blood hath he spilt.(We tread the dance so featly.)
Their love it nourished as fair and freeAs the branch grows green on the linden-tree.
The knight to other lands must roam—The lady, she must bide at home.
“I’ll plant a linden by thy bower,Leaves that beareth, and many a flower.
“And when the linden sheds its leaves,Then shalt thou know thy true-love grieves.
“And when the tree its flowers hath shed,Then shalt thou know thy love is dead.”
When night was done and dawn was greyThe lady looked upon the brae.
“God bless the tree, so green it grows!Well fares my love, where’er he goes!”
That heard the wily serving-maid;Those lovers true hath she betrayed.
The serving-maid, she up and spake:“I’ll spill your loves ere dawn shall break!”
The serving-maid, so false was she,She tore the leaves from the linden-tree.
When night was done and dawn was greyThe lady looked upon the brae.
“The linden-tree hath shed its leaves—“Full well I wot my true-love grieves.
“The linden-tree its flowers hath shed—I wot full well my love is dead.
“And is he dead, my heart’s desire,My bower and all I’ll burn with fire.”
She’s laid a brand her bower unto—She’s choked herself with the bolster blue.
When all the bower in a bale did standHer love came a-sailing back to land.
When all the bower was ashes and dustHer love put in to the selfsame coast.
Unto his page he spake, the knight—“Whose bower is this that burns so bright?
“If my true-love is dead, I say,God wot, I’ll die the self-same day.”
Against a stone he set his hilt,And there his heart’s blood hath he spilt.(We tread the dance so featly.)
Agnesshe walked on the cliff so steep;Up came a merman out of the deep.(Ha, ha, ha!Up came a merman out of the deep.)“Hearken now, Agnes, so fair and so fine!Say, wilt thou come to be true love o’ mine?”“Yes, good sooth, that will I be—But how can I dwell in the depths of the sea?”He has stopped her ears, and stopped her mouth as well;So he bore her down, all in the sea to dwell.She dwelt with the merman eight years and more—Seven fair sons to him she bore.Agnes she sat by the cradle and sang,And she heard how the bells of England rang.Unto the merman she then did say:“May I go up to the kirk to pray?”“Yes, thou shalt go, and pray withal;But see thou come back to thy children small.“When thou hast entered the kirkyard fair,Then shalt thou not let down thy shining golden hair.“And when thou hast entered the door so wide,Then sit not down by thy mother’s side.“When the priest names the Name of dread,Thou shalt not bow thy head.”He has stopped her ears, and stopped her mouth amain;So he bore her up to the English strand again.When she came to the kirkyard fair,Then she let down her shining golden hair.And when she entered the door so wide,She sat her down by her mother’s side.When she heard the Name of dread,Then she bowed down her head.“Hearken now, Agnes, to what I ask of thee—Where hast thou been eight years away from me?”“I dwelt in the sea eight years and more;Seven sons so fair I to the merman bore.”“Tell me, dear daughter, and fear no blame,What did he give for thy maiden fame?”“He gave me a ring of golden sheen—Never a better one hath the queen.“Of golden shoon he gave me a pair—Never a better the queen may wear.“He gave me a harp of gold so gay,That I might play upon, to drive my cares away.”The merman he made him a path so straightUp from the strand to the kirkyard gate.Into the kirk he went, that selfsame day,And all the holy images, they turned their heads away.Like the red, red gold was his shining hair;His eyes were full of sorrow and care.“Hearken now, Agnes, hearken unto me!All thy little children are longing after thee.”“Let them long as they will, yea, let them long so sore!I shall return to them never more.”“Think of the big ones, and think of the small!Of the baby in the cradle think thou most of all.”“I think not of the big ones, I think not of the small!Of the baby in the cradle I’ll think no more at all.”(Ha, ha, ha!Of the baby in the cradle I’ll think no more at all.)
Agnesshe walked on the cliff so steep;Up came a merman out of the deep.(Ha, ha, ha!Up came a merman out of the deep.)“Hearken now, Agnes, so fair and so fine!Say, wilt thou come to be true love o’ mine?”“Yes, good sooth, that will I be—But how can I dwell in the depths of the sea?”He has stopped her ears, and stopped her mouth as well;So he bore her down, all in the sea to dwell.She dwelt with the merman eight years and more—Seven fair sons to him she bore.Agnes she sat by the cradle and sang,And she heard how the bells of England rang.Unto the merman she then did say:“May I go up to the kirk to pray?”“Yes, thou shalt go, and pray withal;But see thou come back to thy children small.“When thou hast entered the kirkyard fair,Then shalt thou not let down thy shining golden hair.“And when thou hast entered the door so wide,Then sit not down by thy mother’s side.“When the priest names the Name of dread,Thou shalt not bow thy head.”He has stopped her ears, and stopped her mouth amain;So he bore her up to the English strand again.When she came to the kirkyard fair,Then she let down her shining golden hair.And when she entered the door so wide,She sat her down by her mother’s side.When she heard the Name of dread,Then she bowed down her head.“Hearken now, Agnes, to what I ask of thee—Where hast thou been eight years away from me?”“I dwelt in the sea eight years and more;Seven sons so fair I to the merman bore.”“Tell me, dear daughter, and fear no blame,What did he give for thy maiden fame?”“He gave me a ring of golden sheen—Never a better one hath the queen.“Of golden shoon he gave me a pair—Never a better the queen may wear.“He gave me a harp of gold so gay,That I might play upon, to drive my cares away.”The merman he made him a path so straightUp from the strand to the kirkyard gate.Into the kirk he went, that selfsame day,And all the holy images, they turned their heads away.Like the red, red gold was his shining hair;His eyes were full of sorrow and care.“Hearken now, Agnes, hearken unto me!All thy little children are longing after thee.”“Let them long as they will, yea, let them long so sore!I shall return to them never more.”“Think of the big ones, and think of the small!Of the baby in the cradle think thou most of all.”“I think not of the big ones, I think not of the small!Of the baby in the cradle I’ll think no more at all.”(Ha, ha, ha!Of the baby in the cradle I’ll think no more at all.)
Agnesshe walked on the cliff so steep;Up came a merman out of the deep.(Ha, ha, ha!Up came a merman out of the deep.)
“Hearken now, Agnes, so fair and so fine!Say, wilt thou come to be true love o’ mine?”
“Yes, good sooth, that will I be—But how can I dwell in the depths of the sea?”
He has stopped her ears, and stopped her mouth as well;So he bore her down, all in the sea to dwell.
She dwelt with the merman eight years and more—Seven fair sons to him she bore.
Agnes she sat by the cradle and sang,And she heard how the bells of England rang.
Unto the merman she then did say:“May I go up to the kirk to pray?”
“Yes, thou shalt go, and pray withal;But see thou come back to thy children small.
“When thou hast entered the kirkyard fair,Then shalt thou not let down thy shining golden hair.
“And when thou hast entered the door so wide,Then sit not down by thy mother’s side.
“When the priest names the Name of dread,Thou shalt not bow thy head.”
He has stopped her ears, and stopped her mouth amain;So he bore her up to the English strand again.
When she came to the kirkyard fair,Then she let down her shining golden hair.
And when she entered the door so wide,She sat her down by her mother’s side.
When she heard the Name of dread,Then she bowed down her head.
“Hearken now, Agnes, to what I ask of thee—Where hast thou been eight years away from me?”
“I dwelt in the sea eight years and more;Seven sons so fair I to the merman bore.”
“Tell me, dear daughter, and fear no blame,What did he give for thy maiden fame?”
“He gave me a ring of golden sheen—Never a better one hath the queen.
“Of golden shoon he gave me a pair—Never a better the queen may wear.
“He gave me a harp of gold so gay,That I might play upon, to drive my cares away.”
The merman he made him a path so straightUp from the strand to the kirkyard gate.
Into the kirk he went, that selfsame day,And all the holy images, they turned their heads away.
Like the red, red gold was his shining hair;His eyes were full of sorrow and care.
“Hearken now, Agnes, hearken unto me!All thy little children are longing after thee.”
“Let them long as they will, yea, let them long so sore!I shall return to them never more.”
“Think of the big ones, and think of the small!Of the baby in the cradle think thou most of all.”
“I think not of the big ones, I think not of the small!Of the baby in the cradle I’ll think no more at all.”(Ha, ha, ha!Of the baby in the cradle I’ll think no more at all.)
Itwas the outworn clayThat slept in endless peace;It was the dead man’s sprite,All in the wan moonlightAn hour before the day,That mourned, and might not cease.“Oh body, oh body of mine,Deep, deep and soft thy rest!Thy burning now is coldIn kindly churchyard and mould,That weights thy wearied eyneAnd thine untroubled breast.“But I must wander and wail—Must bear, in wrath and rue,The burning of quenchless fire—The frustrate, deep desireFor heights I did not scale,For deeds I did not do.“Oh warm life left behind!Oh hearts that held me dear!In my remembered placeDwells healing and solace,Among the kinsmen kindWho decked my sepulchre.”He sought his father’s castle—But lo! in bower and hallThe time was come for mirth.No place, by that glad hearth,’Mid song and feast and wassail,For care funereal.“Where hushed is earthly din,And dreams may come and go;Where day is drowned deepAll under the wings of sleep,There will I enter in,And there will tell my woe.”He mixed with the drifting danceOf dreams that went and came—But by the sleeper’s headAn angel watched the bed;His pure and piercing glanceWas like a sword of flame.“Hence, thou overbold,Wouldst do the deed forbid!Unmeet that flesh should hearThy tale of woe and fear—Unmeet that flesh should seeWhat God with a veil hath hid.”“Oh eyes that have grown blind!Oh hearts that have forgot!Of human love bereft,One hope to me is left;The beast’s dumb soul is kind,Faithful, forsaking not.”But the petted palfrey neighedIn fear, with starting eyeThat searched the shades around—And shrank the faithful hound,Bristling, sore afraid,When he felt the dead draw nigh.Then the spirit turned and fled,Wailing, along the blast;“Torn, torn from life’s warm breast,In death I find no rest!Where hide my shameful head?What refuge find at last?”Around and about and abroadHe went, while the stars grew dim,Till ’neath a sombre pineHe saw a wayside shrine,And heard how Christ the LordSpake from the Rood to him.Yea, once and yet againSpake that small voice and still:“I bear thy sins for thee;Canst thou not wait with MeThe slow-wrought fruit of pain,The long redress of ill?”It was the outworn clayThat slept beneath the sod:It was the dead man’s sprite,While all the east grew whiteIn the wide dawn of day,That waited, praising God.
Itwas the outworn clayThat slept in endless peace;It was the dead man’s sprite,All in the wan moonlightAn hour before the day,That mourned, and might not cease.“Oh body, oh body of mine,Deep, deep and soft thy rest!Thy burning now is coldIn kindly churchyard and mould,That weights thy wearied eyneAnd thine untroubled breast.“But I must wander and wail—Must bear, in wrath and rue,The burning of quenchless fire—The frustrate, deep desireFor heights I did not scale,For deeds I did not do.“Oh warm life left behind!Oh hearts that held me dear!In my remembered placeDwells healing and solace,Among the kinsmen kindWho decked my sepulchre.”He sought his father’s castle—But lo! in bower and hallThe time was come for mirth.No place, by that glad hearth,’Mid song and feast and wassail,For care funereal.“Where hushed is earthly din,And dreams may come and go;Where day is drowned deepAll under the wings of sleep,There will I enter in,And there will tell my woe.”He mixed with the drifting danceOf dreams that went and came—But by the sleeper’s headAn angel watched the bed;His pure and piercing glanceWas like a sword of flame.“Hence, thou overbold,Wouldst do the deed forbid!Unmeet that flesh should hearThy tale of woe and fear—Unmeet that flesh should seeWhat God with a veil hath hid.”“Oh eyes that have grown blind!Oh hearts that have forgot!Of human love bereft,One hope to me is left;The beast’s dumb soul is kind,Faithful, forsaking not.”But the petted palfrey neighedIn fear, with starting eyeThat searched the shades around—And shrank the faithful hound,Bristling, sore afraid,When he felt the dead draw nigh.Then the spirit turned and fled,Wailing, along the blast;“Torn, torn from life’s warm breast,In death I find no rest!Where hide my shameful head?What refuge find at last?”Around and about and abroadHe went, while the stars grew dim,Till ’neath a sombre pineHe saw a wayside shrine,And heard how Christ the LordSpake from the Rood to him.Yea, once and yet againSpake that small voice and still:“I bear thy sins for thee;Canst thou not wait with MeThe slow-wrought fruit of pain,The long redress of ill?”It was the outworn clayThat slept beneath the sod:It was the dead man’s sprite,While all the east grew whiteIn the wide dawn of day,That waited, praising God.
Itwas the outworn clayThat slept in endless peace;It was the dead man’s sprite,All in the wan moonlightAn hour before the day,That mourned, and might not cease.
“Oh body, oh body of mine,Deep, deep and soft thy rest!Thy burning now is coldIn kindly churchyard and mould,That weights thy wearied eyneAnd thine untroubled breast.
“But I must wander and wail—Must bear, in wrath and rue,The burning of quenchless fire—The frustrate, deep desireFor heights I did not scale,For deeds I did not do.
“Oh warm life left behind!Oh hearts that held me dear!In my remembered placeDwells healing and solace,Among the kinsmen kindWho decked my sepulchre.”
He sought his father’s castle—But lo! in bower and hallThe time was come for mirth.No place, by that glad hearth,’Mid song and feast and wassail,For care funereal.
“Where hushed is earthly din,And dreams may come and go;Where day is drowned deepAll under the wings of sleep,There will I enter in,And there will tell my woe.”
He mixed with the drifting danceOf dreams that went and came—But by the sleeper’s headAn angel watched the bed;His pure and piercing glanceWas like a sword of flame.
“Hence, thou overbold,Wouldst do the deed forbid!Unmeet that flesh should hearThy tale of woe and fear—Unmeet that flesh should seeWhat God with a veil hath hid.”
“Oh eyes that have grown blind!Oh hearts that have forgot!Of human love bereft,One hope to me is left;The beast’s dumb soul is kind,Faithful, forsaking not.”
But the petted palfrey neighedIn fear, with starting eyeThat searched the shades around—And shrank the faithful hound,Bristling, sore afraid,When he felt the dead draw nigh.
Then the spirit turned and fled,Wailing, along the blast;“Torn, torn from life’s warm breast,In death I find no rest!Where hide my shameful head?What refuge find at last?”
Around and about and abroadHe went, while the stars grew dim,Till ’neath a sombre pineHe saw a wayside shrine,And heard how Christ the LordSpake from the Rood to him.
Yea, once and yet againSpake that small voice and still:“I bear thy sins for thee;Canst thou not wait with MeThe slow-wrought fruit of pain,The long redress of ill?”
It was the outworn clayThat slept beneath the sod:It was the dead man’s sprite,While all the east grew whiteIn the wide dawn of day,That waited, praising God.
Themermaid sat in Sundal Sound,Combing her lint-white locks;She saw the ships sail in and outAmong the rugged rocks.The mermaid sat in Sundal Sound,Combing her locks so wet—“I’ve laid my love on a mortal man,And I will have him yet!”It was the maiden ÆthelgifWalked in the blowing meads,And she marked how the tide came in from sea,And whispered among the reeds.The tide so free came in from sea,And filled the banks to the brim—And up sailed Ragnar the rover bold,And his merry men with him.Ragnar the rover leapt to landBefore the maiden pale;She saw the stars in his haughty helm,The low moon in his mail.Sir Ragnar stared on Æthelgif,And uttered never a sound;But in the song of the nightingaleHis secret thoughts she found.And all the tale he might not tell,The lore of the North and the South,Was in the look of his eyes, and the kissThat he pressed on her trembling mouth.Up and spake the mermaiden,Beneath the keel did swim:“Would Ragnar woo a mortal maid,The worser woe for him!”The mermaid fell, she spoke a spell,And said a secret runeOr ever he wist, and the maid he kissedGrew faded and faint eftsoon,As the wavering mist, or ever he wist,All under the mighty charm—And like a wraith of wind and breathShe vanished from out his arm.It was the mermaid fair and fellThat sang by the good ship’s side“Ho, ho, for the kiss of the salt sea-spray,And the toss o’ the turning tide!”Alone in the mead the maiden stoodLike one in a waking dream;She saw the sail wind in and outAlong the level stream;Like wan marsh-fire were the shields that shoneAfar in the faint moonbeam.“Oh the gulls fly out with the turning tideAnd cry across the land,Each to each in an alien speechThat I fain would understand.”When days were done and years came on,Her sire did speak and say:“Let bells be rung and Mass be sungFor a blithesome bridal-day!”“Oh sweeter to me the wind from seaThat whispers among the reeds,Than the wooing words of a bridegroom blithe,Or the tramp of the festal steeds!”Up and spake the groom so gay:“Come, pour the red, red wine!Play up, play up, ye minstrel men,To cheer this bride o’ mine!“For the evening-star, like a bridal lamp,Over the tower doth stand;While thin and pale as a wedding-veilThe mist steals o’er the land.”She let the golden cup fall down,And stared as she were wood;“Oh is it wine ye pour for me,Or a beaker of red, red blood?“Like a dirge for the dead is the music gladThat the minstrels play so loud;And the mist that’s pale as a bridal-veilIs white as a waiting shroud!”Up and spake the mermaidenAll under the waning moon:“Ho, ho for the ship that sails at dawn,And sinks ere afternoon!“Ho, ho! for the blood of Ragnar’s breastOn his foeman’s sword is wet!I laid my love on a mortal man,And I will have him yet!”It was Sir Ragnar, the rover bold,Clung to a floating sparAnd drifted in with the turn o’ the tideAcross the harbour-bar.Oh his look was shent, and his helm was bent,And his mail was riven and brast,And the stream that was so clear beforeRan red where’er he passed.Red, red his blood ran down the flood—And, wavering, drowned, and dim,Like the face of death, from the dark beneath,The cold moon stared at him.Into the hall Sir Ragnar went—God wot, his face was pale!The spray was on his dinted helm,The red blood on his mail.“Turn round, turn round, thou beauteous bride!Turn round and look on me!Say, wilt thou wed a living man,Or a dead man out o’ the sea?”She took him in her lily-white arms—She kissed him on the brow—“I loved thee well for seven long years,And well I love thee now!”It was Sir Ragnar laid him downDead at the maiden’s feet;She’s wrapped him in her bridal veil,All for a winding-sheet.Up and spake the shaven priest—“Woe worth the paynim foul!Ye may not lay him in holy ground,Nor sing for his sinful soul.“Cast out his corse to sink or swimWith the toss o’ the turning tide!Let it ne’er be said that Christian maidWould be a rover’s bride!”Up and spake the mermaiden—“Ho, ho, for his pallid lips!Ho for the merry fish that swimAmong the sunken ships!“Ho, ho! for see where he comes toA-floating down so fast!I laid my love on a mortal man,And he is mine at last!”
Themermaid sat in Sundal Sound,Combing her lint-white locks;She saw the ships sail in and outAmong the rugged rocks.The mermaid sat in Sundal Sound,Combing her locks so wet—“I’ve laid my love on a mortal man,And I will have him yet!”It was the maiden ÆthelgifWalked in the blowing meads,And she marked how the tide came in from sea,And whispered among the reeds.The tide so free came in from sea,And filled the banks to the brim—And up sailed Ragnar the rover bold,And his merry men with him.Ragnar the rover leapt to landBefore the maiden pale;She saw the stars in his haughty helm,The low moon in his mail.Sir Ragnar stared on Æthelgif,And uttered never a sound;But in the song of the nightingaleHis secret thoughts she found.And all the tale he might not tell,The lore of the North and the South,Was in the look of his eyes, and the kissThat he pressed on her trembling mouth.Up and spake the mermaiden,Beneath the keel did swim:“Would Ragnar woo a mortal maid,The worser woe for him!”The mermaid fell, she spoke a spell,And said a secret runeOr ever he wist, and the maid he kissedGrew faded and faint eftsoon,As the wavering mist, or ever he wist,All under the mighty charm—And like a wraith of wind and breathShe vanished from out his arm.It was the mermaid fair and fellThat sang by the good ship’s side“Ho, ho, for the kiss of the salt sea-spray,And the toss o’ the turning tide!”Alone in the mead the maiden stoodLike one in a waking dream;She saw the sail wind in and outAlong the level stream;Like wan marsh-fire were the shields that shoneAfar in the faint moonbeam.“Oh the gulls fly out with the turning tideAnd cry across the land,Each to each in an alien speechThat I fain would understand.”When days were done and years came on,Her sire did speak and say:“Let bells be rung and Mass be sungFor a blithesome bridal-day!”“Oh sweeter to me the wind from seaThat whispers among the reeds,Than the wooing words of a bridegroom blithe,Or the tramp of the festal steeds!”Up and spake the groom so gay:“Come, pour the red, red wine!Play up, play up, ye minstrel men,To cheer this bride o’ mine!“For the evening-star, like a bridal lamp,Over the tower doth stand;While thin and pale as a wedding-veilThe mist steals o’er the land.”She let the golden cup fall down,And stared as she were wood;“Oh is it wine ye pour for me,Or a beaker of red, red blood?“Like a dirge for the dead is the music gladThat the minstrels play so loud;And the mist that’s pale as a bridal-veilIs white as a waiting shroud!”Up and spake the mermaidenAll under the waning moon:“Ho, ho for the ship that sails at dawn,And sinks ere afternoon!“Ho, ho! for the blood of Ragnar’s breastOn his foeman’s sword is wet!I laid my love on a mortal man,And I will have him yet!”It was Sir Ragnar, the rover bold,Clung to a floating sparAnd drifted in with the turn o’ the tideAcross the harbour-bar.Oh his look was shent, and his helm was bent,And his mail was riven and brast,And the stream that was so clear beforeRan red where’er he passed.Red, red his blood ran down the flood—And, wavering, drowned, and dim,Like the face of death, from the dark beneath,The cold moon stared at him.Into the hall Sir Ragnar went—God wot, his face was pale!The spray was on his dinted helm,The red blood on his mail.“Turn round, turn round, thou beauteous bride!Turn round and look on me!Say, wilt thou wed a living man,Or a dead man out o’ the sea?”She took him in her lily-white arms—She kissed him on the brow—“I loved thee well for seven long years,And well I love thee now!”It was Sir Ragnar laid him downDead at the maiden’s feet;She’s wrapped him in her bridal veil,All for a winding-sheet.Up and spake the shaven priest—“Woe worth the paynim foul!Ye may not lay him in holy ground,Nor sing for his sinful soul.“Cast out his corse to sink or swimWith the toss o’ the turning tide!Let it ne’er be said that Christian maidWould be a rover’s bride!”Up and spake the mermaiden—“Ho, ho, for his pallid lips!Ho for the merry fish that swimAmong the sunken ships!“Ho, ho! for see where he comes toA-floating down so fast!I laid my love on a mortal man,And he is mine at last!”
Themermaid sat in Sundal Sound,Combing her lint-white locks;She saw the ships sail in and outAmong the rugged rocks.
The mermaid sat in Sundal Sound,Combing her locks so wet—“I’ve laid my love on a mortal man,And I will have him yet!”
It was the maiden ÆthelgifWalked in the blowing meads,And she marked how the tide came in from sea,And whispered among the reeds.
The tide so free came in from sea,And filled the banks to the brim—And up sailed Ragnar the rover bold,And his merry men with him.
Ragnar the rover leapt to landBefore the maiden pale;She saw the stars in his haughty helm,The low moon in his mail.
Sir Ragnar stared on Æthelgif,And uttered never a sound;But in the song of the nightingaleHis secret thoughts she found.
And all the tale he might not tell,The lore of the North and the South,Was in the look of his eyes, and the kissThat he pressed on her trembling mouth.
Up and spake the mermaiden,Beneath the keel did swim:“Would Ragnar woo a mortal maid,The worser woe for him!”
The mermaid fell, she spoke a spell,And said a secret runeOr ever he wist, and the maid he kissedGrew faded and faint eftsoon,
As the wavering mist, or ever he wist,All under the mighty charm—And like a wraith of wind and breathShe vanished from out his arm.
It was the mermaid fair and fellThat sang by the good ship’s side“Ho, ho, for the kiss of the salt sea-spray,And the toss o’ the turning tide!”
Alone in the mead the maiden stoodLike one in a waking dream;She saw the sail wind in and outAlong the level stream;Like wan marsh-fire were the shields that shoneAfar in the faint moonbeam.
“Oh the gulls fly out with the turning tideAnd cry across the land,Each to each in an alien speechThat I fain would understand.”
When days were done and years came on,Her sire did speak and say:“Let bells be rung and Mass be sungFor a blithesome bridal-day!”
“Oh sweeter to me the wind from seaThat whispers among the reeds,Than the wooing words of a bridegroom blithe,Or the tramp of the festal steeds!”
Up and spake the groom so gay:“Come, pour the red, red wine!Play up, play up, ye minstrel men,To cheer this bride o’ mine!
“For the evening-star, like a bridal lamp,Over the tower doth stand;While thin and pale as a wedding-veilThe mist steals o’er the land.”
She let the golden cup fall down,And stared as she were wood;“Oh is it wine ye pour for me,Or a beaker of red, red blood?
“Like a dirge for the dead is the music gladThat the minstrels play so loud;And the mist that’s pale as a bridal-veilIs white as a waiting shroud!”
Up and spake the mermaidenAll under the waning moon:“Ho, ho for the ship that sails at dawn,And sinks ere afternoon!
“Ho, ho! for the blood of Ragnar’s breastOn his foeman’s sword is wet!I laid my love on a mortal man,And I will have him yet!”
It was Sir Ragnar, the rover bold,Clung to a floating sparAnd drifted in with the turn o’ the tideAcross the harbour-bar.
Oh his look was shent, and his helm was bent,And his mail was riven and brast,And the stream that was so clear beforeRan red where’er he passed.
Red, red his blood ran down the flood—And, wavering, drowned, and dim,Like the face of death, from the dark beneath,The cold moon stared at him.
Into the hall Sir Ragnar went—God wot, his face was pale!The spray was on his dinted helm,The red blood on his mail.
“Turn round, turn round, thou beauteous bride!Turn round and look on me!Say, wilt thou wed a living man,Or a dead man out o’ the sea?”
She took him in her lily-white arms—She kissed him on the brow—“I loved thee well for seven long years,And well I love thee now!”
It was Sir Ragnar laid him downDead at the maiden’s feet;She’s wrapped him in her bridal veil,All for a winding-sheet.
Up and spake the shaven priest—“Woe worth the paynim foul!Ye may not lay him in holy ground,Nor sing for his sinful soul.
“Cast out his corse to sink or swimWith the toss o’ the turning tide!Let it ne’er be said that Christian maidWould be a rover’s bride!”
Up and spake the mermaiden—“Ho, ho, for his pallid lips!Ho for the merry fish that swimAmong the sunken ships!
“Ho, ho! for see where he comes toA-floating down so fast!I laid my love on a mortal man,And he is mine at last!”
Betweenthe shrouded fen, and the desolate dunes of sandWhere the fretting seas gnash white, there lies a lonely land.No heights about it couch their grim flanks seamed with scars;But it hath the wider heaven, and the sky more full of stars.Like the verge of the ultimate seas are its long horizon lines;Like the moan of mourning waves the song of its sombre pines.The minstrel’s out on the moor; while far and faint in the windRing the bells of All Souls’ Eve in the town he has left behind.Beneath the sombre pine he has laid him down to sleep,With his harp beside his head; and night grows dark and deep.Softly the wind came sighing, and as it sighed he heardIn the harp a voice that moaned and mourned on a woeful word;“Lo, is it naught?” said the voice in the sobbing strings that sighed—With the wind it wailed and rose, with the wind it sank and died.Spell-bound he, Herluin, lay, and watched like one in a dream,The moonbeams quiver and dance, and the long reeds sway in the stream,Till again, an icy breath, the wind came whispering,And stirred his stiffened hair, and sighed from string to string,And sobbed into speech; “Is it naught,” the low voice singing said,“Is it naught to thee at all that dust of uncounted dead“Is mixed in this lean grey soil? that on this moorland loneThe hosts of mighty men lie scattered bone from bone?“Go search the monkish records, and scarce shall be descriedThro’ the dust on an ancient page, the tale of us who died!“Ho, morn of shrieks and slaughter, when my Danes and I came down,Driving our foes like flocks, and sacked the trembling town!—“When I struck to my battle-song, and the swords rang round my headThat I heard not mine own voice, and knew not that I bled!“Woe worth the brand that broke! Woe worth the blinding blow!Woe worth, woe worth the day when I felt my life-blood flow!“I felt my life-blood flow; I felt my strength and my wit,My heart and my hope and my valour flow drop by drop with it.“Under these pines I fell, and under these pines I woke;And I saw their stems as a fire, their boughs as a brooding smoke.“Woe, woe! for the fight was over, and all around was peace,Save for a moan on the moor, and a long sigh in the trees,“And a voice that came and went and wailed in its wandering—Deep in my mazèd mind I knew ’twas an evil thing.“Oh for the age that I heard, dying alone in the dark,That baleful voice, and watched the green and glimmering spark,“The eye of the prowling wolf, draw near and near and near!—Thou of the stone-built dwelling what dost thou know of fear?”Sudden, the wind dropped. The voice died into the nightAs the ripples died on the river, and, in the wan moonlight,Still grew the wavering rushes, and still the trembling strings:Spell-bound lay Herluin, who gazed on all these things,And knew not that he saw—while o’er the moorland’s rim,Lucent, and wan, and lone, the cold moon stared at him.Long, long it seemed till the wind, a frozen, fleeting breath,Wailed back from far away, “What dost thou know of Death?”Murmured the voice, “Give heed, list to the dark, oh day!Hot heart, hear thou the dust! For, as in fear I lay,“Cursing my limbs of lead, Death’s icy hand took holdOf my heart; the stars went out; thus, thus my tale was told!“I stood, a naked soul; ’tis strange and still, I trow,When the heart has ceased to beat, and the blood has ceased to flow.“Ay, strange to the shuddering soul, when the heart has ceased to beat,And it sees the wan corse lie, unheeding at its feet!—“I hear a rush in the firs, a rush as of hastening horse—Like the forelocks of fiery steeds the branches waver and toss.“See, see where Odin’s war-maids to choose the dead draw nigh!They come with the shout o’ the storm along the scurrying sky.“See where their lucent spears, like shafts of wan moonlight,Pierce from the height of the heavens, lay bare the heart of night!“See, see where Bifrost Bridge arches from cloud to cloud,Built of the gleaming rainbow! See the exulting crowd.“Of the heroes that shouting cross to feast in high Valhall,Where the Maids pour the Æsir-mead to glad their souls withal!“And I—I strained and strove” (and the voice grew shrill and thin;Like to the shuddering harp was the soul of Herluin).“But the Maids were drifting clouds, and the Bridge that spanned the skiesWas the glint of the mocking moon on the tears that filled mine eyes.“Dead, they are dead, the gods in whom we have put our trust;The hopes of heroes’ hearts are ashes and dross and dust.“We have seen our flesh the sport of the crows and the creeping things—We have seen the moss and the lichen grow over the bones of kings—“The firs from us have fed their writhen boughs and thinOur burning blood springs up in the cold green sap o’ the whin—“A whirl of withered leaves in the desolate land of death,Such are our haughty hosts, and our foes are wind and breath.“I found in thy harp a voice; and, after uncounted years,As a man to a man I spoke, and thou couldst not close thine ears.“Yea, now thine ears are opened, for I saw thy soul as a fireAflame in the wastes of the night, the depth of my vain desire.“As a moth to the torch’s flame, as to the moon the tide,Drawn by thy tameless spirit, drawn by thy passion and pride,“Storming the gates of Sense, as the cry of the chords outbroke,Out of the deep I called, and unto the deep I spoke!”Darkness dissolved; the earth stole back to sight; and shrillA cock crew far away; like tears the dew lay chill;And Herluin raised his head, and saw the pallid gleamStand in the face of the East above the shimmering stream,While o’er him as he lay, half-mazed in a magic sweven,The black pine-branches hovered like torn clouds hung in heaven.Day stood upon the moor; and the wailing voice, withdrawn,Sighed o’er the sobbing harp-strings, and died in the wind of dawn.
Betweenthe shrouded fen, and the desolate dunes of sandWhere the fretting seas gnash white, there lies a lonely land.No heights about it couch their grim flanks seamed with scars;But it hath the wider heaven, and the sky more full of stars.Like the verge of the ultimate seas are its long horizon lines;Like the moan of mourning waves the song of its sombre pines.The minstrel’s out on the moor; while far and faint in the windRing the bells of All Souls’ Eve in the town he has left behind.Beneath the sombre pine he has laid him down to sleep,With his harp beside his head; and night grows dark and deep.Softly the wind came sighing, and as it sighed he heardIn the harp a voice that moaned and mourned on a woeful word;“Lo, is it naught?” said the voice in the sobbing strings that sighed—With the wind it wailed and rose, with the wind it sank and died.Spell-bound he, Herluin, lay, and watched like one in a dream,The moonbeams quiver and dance, and the long reeds sway in the stream,Till again, an icy breath, the wind came whispering,And stirred his stiffened hair, and sighed from string to string,And sobbed into speech; “Is it naught,” the low voice singing said,“Is it naught to thee at all that dust of uncounted dead“Is mixed in this lean grey soil? that on this moorland loneThe hosts of mighty men lie scattered bone from bone?“Go search the monkish records, and scarce shall be descriedThro’ the dust on an ancient page, the tale of us who died!“Ho, morn of shrieks and slaughter, when my Danes and I came down,Driving our foes like flocks, and sacked the trembling town!—“When I struck to my battle-song, and the swords rang round my headThat I heard not mine own voice, and knew not that I bled!“Woe worth the brand that broke! Woe worth the blinding blow!Woe worth, woe worth the day when I felt my life-blood flow!“I felt my life-blood flow; I felt my strength and my wit,My heart and my hope and my valour flow drop by drop with it.“Under these pines I fell, and under these pines I woke;And I saw their stems as a fire, their boughs as a brooding smoke.“Woe, woe! for the fight was over, and all around was peace,Save for a moan on the moor, and a long sigh in the trees,“And a voice that came and went and wailed in its wandering—Deep in my mazèd mind I knew ’twas an evil thing.“Oh for the age that I heard, dying alone in the dark,That baleful voice, and watched the green and glimmering spark,“The eye of the prowling wolf, draw near and near and near!—Thou of the stone-built dwelling what dost thou know of fear?”Sudden, the wind dropped. The voice died into the nightAs the ripples died on the river, and, in the wan moonlight,Still grew the wavering rushes, and still the trembling strings:Spell-bound lay Herluin, who gazed on all these things,And knew not that he saw—while o’er the moorland’s rim,Lucent, and wan, and lone, the cold moon stared at him.Long, long it seemed till the wind, a frozen, fleeting breath,Wailed back from far away, “What dost thou know of Death?”Murmured the voice, “Give heed, list to the dark, oh day!Hot heart, hear thou the dust! For, as in fear I lay,“Cursing my limbs of lead, Death’s icy hand took holdOf my heart; the stars went out; thus, thus my tale was told!“I stood, a naked soul; ’tis strange and still, I trow,When the heart has ceased to beat, and the blood has ceased to flow.“Ay, strange to the shuddering soul, when the heart has ceased to beat,And it sees the wan corse lie, unheeding at its feet!—“I hear a rush in the firs, a rush as of hastening horse—Like the forelocks of fiery steeds the branches waver and toss.“See, see where Odin’s war-maids to choose the dead draw nigh!They come with the shout o’ the storm along the scurrying sky.“See where their lucent spears, like shafts of wan moonlight,Pierce from the height of the heavens, lay bare the heart of night!“See, see where Bifrost Bridge arches from cloud to cloud,Built of the gleaming rainbow! See the exulting crowd.“Of the heroes that shouting cross to feast in high Valhall,Where the Maids pour the Æsir-mead to glad their souls withal!“And I—I strained and strove” (and the voice grew shrill and thin;Like to the shuddering harp was the soul of Herluin).“But the Maids were drifting clouds, and the Bridge that spanned the skiesWas the glint of the mocking moon on the tears that filled mine eyes.“Dead, they are dead, the gods in whom we have put our trust;The hopes of heroes’ hearts are ashes and dross and dust.“We have seen our flesh the sport of the crows and the creeping things—We have seen the moss and the lichen grow over the bones of kings—“The firs from us have fed their writhen boughs and thinOur burning blood springs up in the cold green sap o’ the whin—“A whirl of withered leaves in the desolate land of death,Such are our haughty hosts, and our foes are wind and breath.“I found in thy harp a voice; and, after uncounted years,As a man to a man I spoke, and thou couldst not close thine ears.“Yea, now thine ears are opened, for I saw thy soul as a fireAflame in the wastes of the night, the depth of my vain desire.“As a moth to the torch’s flame, as to the moon the tide,Drawn by thy tameless spirit, drawn by thy passion and pride,“Storming the gates of Sense, as the cry of the chords outbroke,Out of the deep I called, and unto the deep I spoke!”Darkness dissolved; the earth stole back to sight; and shrillA cock crew far away; like tears the dew lay chill;And Herluin raised his head, and saw the pallid gleamStand in the face of the East above the shimmering stream,While o’er him as he lay, half-mazed in a magic sweven,The black pine-branches hovered like torn clouds hung in heaven.Day stood upon the moor; and the wailing voice, withdrawn,Sighed o’er the sobbing harp-strings, and died in the wind of dawn.
Betweenthe shrouded fen, and the desolate dunes of sandWhere the fretting seas gnash white, there lies a lonely land.
No heights about it couch their grim flanks seamed with scars;But it hath the wider heaven, and the sky more full of stars.
Like the verge of the ultimate seas are its long horizon lines;Like the moan of mourning waves the song of its sombre pines.
The minstrel’s out on the moor; while far and faint in the windRing the bells of All Souls’ Eve in the town he has left behind.
Beneath the sombre pine he has laid him down to sleep,With his harp beside his head; and night grows dark and deep.
Softly the wind came sighing, and as it sighed he heardIn the harp a voice that moaned and mourned on a woeful word;
“Lo, is it naught?” said the voice in the sobbing strings that sighed—With the wind it wailed and rose, with the wind it sank and died.
Spell-bound he, Herluin, lay, and watched like one in a dream,The moonbeams quiver and dance, and the long reeds sway in the stream,
Till again, an icy breath, the wind came whispering,And stirred his stiffened hair, and sighed from string to string,
And sobbed into speech; “Is it naught,” the low voice singing said,“Is it naught to thee at all that dust of uncounted dead
“Is mixed in this lean grey soil? that on this moorland loneThe hosts of mighty men lie scattered bone from bone?
“Go search the monkish records, and scarce shall be descriedThro’ the dust on an ancient page, the tale of us who died!
“Ho, morn of shrieks and slaughter, when my Danes and I came down,Driving our foes like flocks, and sacked the trembling town!—
“When I struck to my battle-song, and the swords rang round my headThat I heard not mine own voice, and knew not that I bled!
“Woe worth the brand that broke! Woe worth the blinding blow!Woe worth, woe worth the day when I felt my life-blood flow!
“I felt my life-blood flow; I felt my strength and my wit,My heart and my hope and my valour flow drop by drop with it.
“Under these pines I fell, and under these pines I woke;And I saw their stems as a fire, their boughs as a brooding smoke.
“Woe, woe! for the fight was over, and all around was peace,Save for a moan on the moor, and a long sigh in the trees,
“And a voice that came and went and wailed in its wandering—Deep in my mazèd mind I knew ’twas an evil thing.
“Oh for the age that I heard, dying alone in the dark,That baleful voice, and watched the green and glimmering spark,
“The eye of the prowling wolf, draw near and near and near!—Thou of the stone-built dwelling what dost thou know of fear?”
Sudden, the wind dropped. The voice died into the nightAs the ripples died on the river, and, in the wan moonlight,
Still grew the wavering rushes, and still the trembling strings:Spell-bound lay Herluin, who gazed on all these things,
And knew not that he saw—while o’er the moorland’s rim,Lucent, and wan, and lone, the cold moon stared at him.
Long, long it seemed till the wind, a frozen, fleeting breath,Wailed back from far away, “What dost thou know of Death?”
Murmured the voice, “Give heed, list to the dark, oh day!Hot heart, hear thou the dust! For, as in fear I lay,
“Cursing my limbs of lead, Death’s icy hand took holdOf my heart; the stars went out; thus, thus my tale was told!
“I stood, a naked soul; ’tis strange and still, I trow,When the heart has ceased to beat, and the blood has ceased to flow.
“Ay, strange to the shuddering soul, when the heart has ceased to beat,And it sees the wan corse lie, unheeding at its feet!—
“I hear a rush in the firs, a rush as of hastening horse—Like the forelocks of fiery steeds the branches waver and toss.
“See, see where Odin’s war-maids to choose the dead draw nigh!They come with the shout o’ the storm along the scurrying sky.
“See where their lucent spears, like shafts of wan moonlight,Pierce from the height of the heavens, lay bare the heart of night!
“See, see where Bifrost Bridge arches from cloud to cloud,Built of the gleaming rainbow! See the exulting crowd.
“Of the heroes that shouting cross to feast in high Valhall,Where the Maids pour the Æsir-mead to glad their souls withal!
“And I—I strained and strove” (and the voice grew shrill and thin;Like to the shuddering harp was the soul of Herluin).
“But the Maids were drifting clouds, and the Bridge that spanned the skiesWas the glint of the mocking moon on the tears that filled mine eyes.
“Dead, they are dead, the gods in whom we have put our trust;The hopes of heroes’ hearts are ashes and dross and dust.
“We have seen our flesh the sport of the crows and the creeping things—We have seen the moss and the lichen grow over the bones of kings—
“The firs from us have fed their writhen boughs and thinOur burning blood springs up in the cold green sap o’ the whin—
“A whirl of withered leaves in the desolate land of death,Such are our haughty hosts, and our foes are wind and breath.
“I found in thy harp a voice; and, after uncounted years,As a man to a man I spoke, and thou couldst not close thine ears.
“Yea, now thine ears are opened, for I saw thy soul as a fireAflame in the wastes of the night, the depth of my vain desire.
“As a moth to the torch’s flame, as to the moon the tide,Drawn by thy tameless spirit, drawn by thy passion and pride,
“Storming the gates of Sense, as the cry of the chords outbroke,Out of the deep I called, and unto the deep I spoke!”
Darkness dissolved; the earth stole back to sight; and shrillA cock crew far away; like tears the dew lay chill;
And Herluin raised his head, and saw the pallid gleamStand in the face of the East above the shimmering stream,
While o’er him as he lay, half-mazed in a magic sweven,The black pine-branches hovered like torn clouds hung in heaven.
Day stood upon the moor; and the wailing voice, withdrawn,Sighed o’er the sobbing harp-strings, and died in the wind of dawn.