Well we know from saga
And from scaldic lore,
That heroic warriors
Were the Danes of yore.
That the noble schildings,
And the men they led,
Oft for Danish honour
Stoutly fought and bled.
What a time for Athelings,
What a time for thanes!
What a time for yeomen,
True devoted Danes!
But I'll say with pleasure
That, in ancient days,
Death did not annihilate
All that noble race.
Frederic see, exalted
On his father's throne,
Sits a splendid monarch,
Brighter never shone.
Long to him be granted
That of Grendel's kin
He may check the cruel
Cursed deeds of sin.
And that long may flourish
Round about the King,
They who love gold treasures
All around to fling.
Lords, the first of heroes,
With their trenchant swords;
Counsellors held in honour,
For their golden words.
To the Lord of angels
Praise devout I'll sing,
That from out the grave-hill
'Twas my lot to bring
Golden dishes, goblets,
Things of mighty worth,
Which for thousand winters
Lay entombed in earth.
That men in gold smithery
Cunning, might from them
For the grey haired hero
Frame a diadem.
Under which his grey locks
Might all glorious shine,
Whilst the sun, bright flaming,
Seeks the western brine.
Until, tired of glory,
Such as meets it here,
Soars the hero's spirit
To a higher sphere;
Where, with souls united
Of departed friends,
'Twill experience glory
Such as never ends.