The services of the vassal, by German law, belonged from bir_Danish ballads

liege lord, with whose consent alone could the contract be broken;

whereas the Danish chieftainship was based on the Law of Commutation,

which gave the vassal the annual right to “take leave” (Orlov tage) and

serve another chieftain. Twice over in the Ballad does Ebbeson gives his

“swains” the choice whether or no they will follow him into danger; and

twice over the system of free-will service is vindicated by their answer.

Valiant attempts have been made by Danish antiquaries to identify “Swain

Trøst”—Vedel, for instance, provided him with a name and a family—just

as their English confrères would fain find an original for Robin Hood.

But this Trusty Page had no local habitation: his very name is borrowed

from the Ballad of Young Danneved; for the Svend Trøst who saves his lord

at a pinch is a figure frequently found in the ballad-world. Popular

imagination, through him, does honour to all his class.

This Ballad is obviously the work of a minstrel (not contemporary with

Niels), and is not associated with the Dance.

The Revised Conclusion is by another hand, and slightly later in date

than the original version. A third exists, very imperfectly preserved,

which is more historically accurate than either. It replaces Anders Frost

by Esge, his father, and depicts Niels as asking aid of his brother Knud

Ebbeson of Bygholm. We learn from it—with regret—that Niels’ speech to

his house-carles, and Swain Trøst’s achievement, are the inventions of an

admiring posterity.

One other poetical pæan must be quoted—the song-burst of a grave

chronicler:

“M semel et ter C bis binos X lege per te.

Danorum mentes beat ipse dies Sitientes!

Filius Ebbonis Nicholaus more leonis

stravit serpentem Gerardum bella gerentem.”

NIELS EBBESON, 1340

The Count to Denmark took his way,

Nor failed for fear of strife,

Tho’ langsyne ’twas to him foretold

He there should lose his life.

Was none that might gainsay his will

His fate to put to test;

Yeoman and boor and knight and knave,

With all he will be guest.

The Count he called Niels Ebbeson

To come and meet with him,

And truce he sent him therewithal,

And safety for life and limb.

The Count he met Niels Ebbeson

Northward beside the sea:

“Now be thou welcome, Niels Ebbeson,

Right welcome unto me!

“Blithe is thy cheer, Niels Ebbeson,

Retainer dear of mine!

Say, what is the mind of the northern Jutes,

And what of kinsmen thine?”

“Oh, kinsmen have I ’mid the northern Jutes,

And my wife hath kin alsò;

And all of them shall do thy will,

If they thy will may know.”

“Niels Ebbeson, thou art a valiant man,

And a man of wit beside,

And canst thou not ride straightforward,

The long way round thou’lt ride.

“Now lithe and listen, Niels Ebbeson,

Wilt thou mine errand speed,

Then say how many swains hast thou

Will stand thee by at need?”

“Oh, five and forty carles have I,

Such as they well may be;

And be they many or be they few

Right dear are they to me.”

“And hast thou five and forty carles

Well art thou served, I ween!

But last night wert thou in Sir Bugge’s hold

With a hundred mail-clad men.”

Niels Ebbeson he stamped his foot,

And straight made answer high:

“Is any man here, or knight or knave,

Who dares maintain that lie?

“Is any man here, or knight or knave,

Dares put it to the touch,

Never a foot will I give back,

For I have sworn as much!”

“Lithe and listen, Niels Ebbeson,

Such words must have an end!

Now seek him, and see, Sir Bugge,

If he will be my friend.

“Sir Bugge and Povl Glob the young

To do my will did swear,

And Sir Anders Frost is one with them,

And foremost in counsel there.

“And more have sworn to do my will

That now will work me woe;

So list and heed Sir Bugge’s rede,

And see how the thing will go!”

“Oh, nought know I of Sir Bugge’s mind,

What he may say or do;

But Anders hath kept his faith with thee,

As all men will tell thee true.

“Anders hath kept his faith with thee,

As all men will tell thee true;

But, would he take leave of thy service,

Such leave is a free man’s due.

“For this is the Danish custom,

And hath been from days of yore,

If a swain would cease his service,

He should have leave therefor.”

Up and spake Sir Gert the Count

That liked his words right ill:

“Oh, never a vassal should leave his lord

Save with his lord’s good-will!”

“Oh, none is joined with a holy vow

Save a monk to his cowl of grey!

Let chieftains come and chieftains go,

Men serve them as best they may!”

“Overbold is his speech, Niels Ebbeson,

Dares bandy words with me!

Or thou shalt depart from Denmark

Or I’ll hang thee to a tree!”

“And must I depart from Denmark,

From wife’s and bairn’s embrace,

Oh, thou shalt call it a luckless hour

That ever thou saw’st my face!”

“Get hence, get hence, Niels Ebbeson,

Let all thy prating be!

Or I will do what well I may,

And break my truce with thee!”

“Oh, ne’er hast thou seen me so sore afraid

As to tremble for curse and ban!

Look well to thyself, Lord Count, I say,

And defend thy head like a man!”

“Niels Ebbeson, thy words are wild,

To hold thy peace were best;

But I will keep truce with thee to-day

Till the sun goes down to rest.”

Niels Ebbeson waved his lily-white hand,

And turned his steed on the shore:

“Farewell, Count Gert, with all thy men!

Soon shall we meet once more.”

Niels Ebbeson he fled full fast,

Nor spur was fain to spare,

And the Count held back with all his men,

Was none durst follow there.

It was he, Niels Ebbeson,

That to his hold did win;

It was his own dear lady

Came forth to lead him in.

“Now lithe and listen, mine own dear wife,

And my rede shall rise at thee;

The Count will drive me from the land

Or hang me to a tree!”

“What counsel can I give to thee

That have but a woman’s wit?

The worst of rede were here the best

Could we but light on it.

“The worst of rede were here the best,

All in this evil hour,

Either the Count to strike adown

Or burn him in his bower!

“Now let thy steeds to the smithy fare

(This is my counsel true),

And see that their shoon turn the backward way

When they are shod anew.

“Oh, see that their shoon turn the backward way,

So the foemen thy track shall miss,

And take heed and tell to no man

That a woman taught thee this!”

Up and spake Niels Ebbeson,

Unto his men cried he:

“Now which of you will follow,

And which take leave of me?

“Let him that now will follow

Stretch forth his hand to me,

And he that now will take his leave

Speak up right speedilie!”

Up they stood, his Danish squires,

And answered their lord so free:

“Lo, all of us will follow

And risk our lives for thee!”

Oh, up they rode to Lady-wood,

And there their steeds did bind,

And forth into the town they went

Count Gert to seek and find.

It was he, Niels Ebbeson,

To Randers Bridge did ride:

“Now let him take leave and go his way

Dares not the brunt abide!”

Up and spake he, little boy Trust,

More faithful than them all:

“Now give me leave, my master,

And saddle and steed withal!”

He gave him leave, his master,

And saddle and steed withal,

And or ever the day was over

He served him best of all.

It was he, Niels Ebbeson,

With sword that smote the door:

“Stand up, stand up, Lord Gert the Count,

For thou shalt sleep no more!

“Stand up, Lord Gert the Count,

And lend to me thine ear,

Duke Henrik’s messenger am I,

And he hath sent me here.

“Harken, Gert the Count,

Nor longer lay thee down!

Kolding is beleaguered,

And burnt is Ribe town.”

“And dost thou tell me tidings true,

Then good are such tidings to hear;

Forth from the hold while yet we live,

And forth with the steeds and gear!”

Oh, they have opened wide the door

That the message might be sped,

And it was he, Niels Ebbeson,

Went up to the County’s bed.

“Oh, thou and I, Niels Ebbeson,

Can a better bargain strike;

Word will we send to Duke Henrik

And Sir Klaus Krummerdike.”

“Yestere’en thy words were other,

All out upon the strand;

I should go to the gallows,

Or get me from the land.”

Up and spake the swarthy swain:

“Now waste no further word!

Let be, let be thy tedious tale,

And harken to the sword!”

They’ve seized him, Gert the Count,

All by his golden hair,

And they have hewn his neck in twain

Over his bedside there.

Now when the Count was done to death

All on their drums they beat;

Forth he fared, Niels Ebbeson,

And galloped adown the street.

Forth he fared, Niels Ebbeson,

And fain would flee away,

But there he met Sir Ove Haas

That strove to say him nay.

“Now lithe and listen, Sir Ove Haas,

And see that thou let me go,

For thou hast wed my kinswoman,

And that thou well dost know.”

“And have I wed thy kinswoman,

Then kin am I to thee,

But since thou hast struck down my lord

I may not let thee be!”

Niels Ebbeson drew his brand so brown,

For ne’er would he shrink from strife;

Sir Ove and many a Teuton swain

Must there lay down his life.

It was he, Niels Ebbeson,

To Randers Bridge did ride,

And the little page that erst took leave

Was standing there beside.

Niels Ebbeson rode o’er the bridge,

For fast his foes came on;

It was the little foot-page

That broke the bridge adown.

Niels Ebbeson rode to Noringsris,

And fast he spurred his steed,

Sore, good sooth, was his anguish,

And sore, good sooth, his need.

She sheltered him, an old good-wife,

Of loaves that had but two,

And she’s given one to Niels Ebbeson

Because the Count he slew!

THE RE-MODELLED CONCLUSION OF NIELS EBBESON

“Now eat ye, and drink, my Danish squires,

And see that your hearts be gay!

For when the night is overpast

Oh, then we will seize the day.

“When day doth dawn and sun doth shine

We shall have tidings new;

And then shall I see, ’mid all my men,

How many will stand me true.”

Up they stood, the Danish squires,

And answered their lord so free:

“Oh, we will risk both goods and life

And all to ride with thee!”

Oh, up they rode to Lady-wood,

And there their steeds they bind,

And in they’ve gone to Randers town,

Count Gert to seek and find.

Forth he fared, Niels Ebbeson,

To Randers Bridge came he:

“Now let him take leave and go his way

That will not follow me!”

Up they stood, the captains good,

Swore fealty to their lord anew,

All but Niels Ebbeson’s sister’s son,

Was there to him untrue.

It was he, Niels Ebbeson,

With sword that smote the door:

“Stand up, stand up, Sir Gert the Count,

For thou shalt sleep no more!

“Stand up, stand up, Sir Gert the Count,

And lend to me thine ear!

Duke Henrik’s messenger am I,

And he hath sent me here.”

“And art thou Duke Henrik’s messenger,

Then tarry thou not too long;

To-morrow we’ll meet in the Greyfriars’ Kirk

’Twixt Mass and Evensong.”

“Stand up, Sir Gert the Count,

Nor longer lay thee down!

Kolding is beleaguered,

And burnt is Ribe town!”

Forth from the window looked the Count,

And the shining spears he spied:

“Oh, luckless the hour that I came in!

Niels Ebbeson holds outside.”

They knocked at the door with glaive and with spear,

That loosed were lock and link:

“Art thou within, Lord Gert the Count,

A health to thee we’ll drink!”

“Now set thee down upon my bed,

A league we can form, belike;

Word will we send to Duke Henrik,

And Sir Klaus Krummerdike.”

“Oh, neither keep nor hold have I

To guard so rich a prey!

Draw out, draw out the swords so sharp,

And let them have their way!”

The goose did cackle, the sheep did bleat,

And the cock in the high loft crew;

’Twas by daylight and not in darkness

That Gert the Count they slew.

God rest thy soul, Niels Ebbeson,

All for that slaying’s sake!

Full many a German in Denmark

The self-same way shall take.

LEGENDARY BALLADS

HAVBOR AND SIGNELIL

The story of Havbor, or Hagbard, and Signelil is a very ancient one.

Sven Grundtvig gives it a Russian origin; but, however that may be,

it is traced back by other Danish authorities to the dim period of

Folk-Migration, before the Skjoldung kings. Sung in an antique Lay—which

has perished—it was re-told by Saxo Grammaticus, and frequently referred

to in the works of the Icelandic skalds between the ninth and eleventh

centuries. The twelfth-century Kormak’s Saga mentions a representation

of Hagbard among the carvings in Thorkel’s hall. Snorris’ Edda

(Skaldskarparsmal) gives Hagbard’s name in a list of sea-kings; and

Brynhild (Volsunga Saga 25) calls him the first of men before the birth

of Sigurd Fafnirsbane.

The probable scene of the tragedy is Sigarsted, in Sjælland, near

Ringsted, the ancient royal residence. There the sites yet exist of

Sigar’s palace and Signe’s bower—there, too, is the howe where the

gibbet was raised, and the field where Sigar was defeated by Hagbard’s

avenging kinsmen. They were visited by Ole Worm in 1642, and a map of

them was published in _Monumenta Danica_. The Rev. S. M. Beyer, in 1791,

excited the antiquarian world by his alleged discovery of a rune-stone

commemorating King Sigar—but, since the stone, he was careful to add, had

since been destroyed, the statement, to put it mildly, lacks verification.

The ballad-minstrel omits much of the original story, but adds details

of his own—Havbor’s reply to the serving-maid, the King’s remorseful

outburst, and the punishment of the tale-bearer. The binding of Havbor

with Signe’s hair, and his refusal to break it, though appearing at first

sight a touch of fantastic mediæval chivalry, probably harks back to a

much more primitive superstition, well known to all witches—that which

regards the hair as enshrining the life of its possessor. In verse 20 we

have a faint reminiscence of the antique Shield-Maidens, Choosers of the

Slain.

HAVBOR AND SIGNELIL

Havbor the King and Sivord the King

Have fallen out in strife,

All for the stately Signelil

That was so fair a wife.

—Ne’er wilt thou win such a fair one.

Havbor the King he dreamt a dream,

And woeful did he wake;

He went to seek his mother,

And unto her he spake:

“Methought that I was up in heaven,

And that was so fair a town;

And I held proud Signelil in mine arms,

And we fell from the sky adown.”

“And didst thou dream thou wast in heaven,

And fellest adown from the sky,

That bodes that thou wilt win the maid,

But for her sake shalt die!”

“And if I win the maiden

Such happiness have I,

I count the cost but little

That I for her must die!”

Havbor he let his locks wax long,

And clad him in woman’s gear,

And so he rode to Denmark

As though he maiden were.

All in the midst of the castle garth

His garment changèd he,

Then entered in the ladies’ bower

Proud Signelil to see.

“Here sittest thou, stately Signelil,

With matrons and maids arow!

Havbor hath sent me hither

To learn to broider and sew.”

“All the woman’s craft I know

Shall be for thee displayed;

Shalt eat from the self-same dish as I,

And sleep with my serving-maid.”

“Oh, I have eaten with king’s children,

And lain in their arms at night;

And must I sleep with thy serving-maid

I shall die of the sore despite.”

“Now lithe and listen, my beauteous maid,

Let all thy sorrow be!

Shalt eat of the self-same dish as I,

And sleep by the side of me.”

He’s taken out a knife so small,

And cut as best he could;

He’s shaped them out, both hind and hart,

That run in good greenwood.

Still sat all the haughty maids

And sewed as best they might,

All save Havbor, the son of kings,

His needle still did bite.

Up and spake the serving-maid,

So evil a tongue had she:

“Oh, never saw I so poor a seam

Sewn by a fair ladye!

“Ever her needle is in her mouth,

She sets no stitches fine;

And ever she drains the goblet out,

So deep as they pour the wine!

“Ne’er have I seen a lady’s hands

Stiffer than steel, I trow!

And ne’er have I seen so bold an eye

Under a lady’s brow!”

“Now hold thy tongue, thou evil maid,

And speak no spite of me!

Let me turn mine eyes where’er I may

I’ll turn them not on thee!”

Now all were bound to slumber,

Whenas the eve was spent;

Havbor and stately Signelil

To the self-same chamber went.

She laid her hand on Havbor’s breast

That shone with gold so red:

“Why hast thou a bosom so like a man,

And not the breasts of a maid?”

“Oh, the custom it is in my father’s land

That maids to the Thing should fare,

And therefore have I no maiden’s breasts

Because of the mail we wear!

“Now tell me, stately Signelil,

While we are all alone,

Is there ever a man in all the world

Thou hast set thy heart upon?”

“Oh, there’s never a man in all the world

That lies my heart within,

Saving young Havbor, the son of kings,

That I may never win.”

“And is it Havbor, the son of kings,

That to thy heart is dear,

Then turn thee hither, mine own true love!

He is sleeping all so near!”

“And art thou Havbor, the son of kings?

Why hast thou shamèd me?

Why didst not ride to my father’s court

With hawk on hand so free?”

“Oh, how should I ride with hawk on hand

To thy father’s court so free?

Full well I know thy wrathful sire

Would hang me to a tree!”

“Now hush thee, hush thee, Havbor,

And take thou heed, I pray!

My serving-maid lies waking

And listens to all we say.”

“Oh, let her lie and listen,

Thine evil serving-maid!

Beneath my bolster are hidden

Both corselet and trusty blade.

“Beneath my bolster are hidden

Both corselet and sword so true;

And were a hundred warriors here

The meeting they should rue!”

Oh, she has heard their counsel,

The evil serving-maid;

She’s stolen away his byrnie brown

But and his trusty blade.

Both trusty blade and byrnie brown

She’s secretly stolen away;

She’s hied her to the chamber fair

Where Sivord the King he lay.

“Oh, sleep ye, wake ye, my noble lord?

Your slumber is all too deep!

For now lies Havbor, the son of kings,

By your daughter’s side asleep.”

“Now hold thy peace, thou evil maid,

For an thou art a liar,

To-morrow or ever the sun goes down

Thou shalt be burnt with fire!”

“Lithe now and listen, King Sivord,

Well may ye trust my word;

For here is Havbor’s byrnie brown

But and his trusty sword.”

Up he sprang, King Sivord,

And cried thro’ bower and hall:

“Rise up, rise up, my merry men,

And don your armour all!

“Now don your mail, my merry men,

And clasp it well enough,

For here is Havbor, the son of kings,

A warrior tall and tough!”

Oh, they have knocked at the chamber door

With glaive and eke with spear:

“Rise up now, Havbor, son of kings!

Come forth and meet us here!”

Up sprang Havbor, the son of kings,

Or ever they spake the word,

And he has missed his byrnie brown,

But and his trusty sword.

“Oh, gone, gone is my byrnie,

And gone my blade so true!

Now by my troth, proud Signelil,

This meeting we shall rue!”

All hail to Havbor, son of kings,

That fought like a warrior stout!

Ne’er could his foes come nigh him

While the boards of the bed held out.

Oh, some he slew with his naked hands,

And some underfoot did tread;

Full thirty of King Sivord’s men

By Signild’s bower lay dead.

They’ve taken Havbor, the son of kings,

And fetters on him they draw;

He burst them all asunder

As they had been of straw.

Oh, shame be on the serving-maid

That gave them counsel there:

“Never shall ye bind Havbor

But with proud Signild’s hair!”

They took a hair of Signild’s head

To bind him foot and hand;

His haughty heart had broken

Ere he would burst that band.

“Now harken, haughty Signelil!

Wilt show thy love to me,

Then burn thy bower and all therein

When they hang me to a tree!”

“Oh, is there a man of my father’s men

That in thy death hath part,

Be sure I will avenge it

All on his own sweetheart!”

Up spake Havbor, the son of kings,

When first he saw the tree:

“Hang up my cloak of scarlet

A sign for all to see!

“Hang up my cloak of scarlet

That is both fair and fine!

The ladies all will weep and wail

When first they see the sign.”

It was stately Signelil

To roof and reed set fire;

She and all her maidens

Burned in the self-same pyre.

Long stood Havbor, the son of kings,

To look his last on land,

Until he saw proud Signild’s bower

That all in flame did stand.

“Take down, take down my cloak of red,

And cast it to earth so deep,

For an I had ten thousand lives

Not one of them would I keep!”

Up and spake King Sivord,

That looked, and needs must speak:

“Oh, what is the bale a-burning there,

But and the driving reek?”

Up and spake the little foot-page,

And sore his tears ran down:

“Oh, that is stately Signelil

That lets her love be shown!”

“Save her, stately Signelil!

See that ye ride and run!

Get ye in haste to the gallows

And save King Havbor’s son!”

When they came to the bower

Signelil’s soul was sped;

When they came to the gallows

Havbor was hanged and dead.

“Oh, had I known but yesternight

How deep in love were they,

I would not ha’ done for all Denmark

The deed I ha’ done this day!”

Now woe is me for the gallows-tree,

And the bower in ashes laid!

They’ve buried her in the earth alive,

The cruel serving-maid.

—Ne’er wilt thou win such a fair one.

EBBE SKAMMELSON

This ballad of a brother’s treachery (which may be compared with our own

“Childe Vyet”) dates from _circa_ 1300, and is considered by Olrik as the

best produced in Denmark during the mediæval period. In character-drawing

it yields to none. Proud Adelus, “strong in will and true in troth,” is

the ideal noble lady; the hot-blooded hero, the cowardly brother, and

the mother with her unavailing attempt at smoothing things over, are

all well individualized. The burden, too, is peculiarly haunting and

picturesque.

Tradition points to the Nordentoft homestead in North Jutland (Ty) as the

scene of the tragedy; and the great Strangeson family claims Ebbe as its

founder.

EBBE SKAMMELSON

Skammel he dwells up north in Ty,

And Skammel is rich and gay;

Five sons hath he both fair and tall,

But two went an evil way.

—Therefore roams Ebbe Skammelson so many a lonely way.

Sir Ebbe serves for fame and fee

The royal court within,

While Peter his brother that bides at home

His true-love’s troth would win.

“Dost sit at home, proud Adelus,

And broider my brother’s gear?

Ebbe he serves in the King’s own court,

And scorns thee, nor holds thee dear!”

“Full well do I know him, Ebbe,

And Ebbe his heart knows he;

And scorns he never a maiden proud

The less hath he scorn for me!”

“Now lithe and listen, proud Adelus,

And be my plighted maid!

For true I tell thee the tidings

That Ebbe my brother is dead.”

All on the self-same evening

They drank to the plighted pair;

All on the Monday after

To bridal-feast they fare.

It was Ebbe Skammelson

At midnight did awake,

And he up and called to the nearest swain

And of his dream he spake.

“Methought that my stone-built tower

Stood all in a leaping lowe,

And Peter my brother burned therein,

And my fair love alsò.”

“And didst thou dream thy tower of stone

Stood all in a lowe so red,

Then know, that Peter thy brother

Thine own fair love doth wed.”

It was Ebbe Skammelson

That girt his sword by his side,

And leave he won, Sir Ebbe,

Homeward in haste to ride.

It was Ebbe Skammelson

That paused not on his way;

He came to his father’s castle

All on the bridal-day.

Forth they come, his sisters twain,

With bracelets on either hand:

“Now welcome, Ebbe our brother,

Home to thy father’s land!”

“Now lithe and listen, my sisters twain,

And look that ye do not lie!

Say wherefore are gathering hither

This goodly companie?”

Up spake his youngest sister,

For needs must the words be said:

“Lo! ’tis Peter thy brother

Thine own true-love doth wed!”

To one he has given a brooch for her breast,

To the other a ring for her hand:

“Oh, I brought them both to my own true-love

Out of the strangers’ land!”

The one she has bidden him bide at home,

The other has bidden him go:

“For dost thou tarry here o’er this night

Be sure it will work us woe!”

Ebbe he turned his horse’s head

Forth from the hold to ride,

But his mother she seized the bridal-rein

And begged him at home to bide.

His mother all to the highest place

Hath brought him cushion and chair,

His father hath brought him a cup of wine

To pledge the bridal-pair.

He pledged them in the mead so brown

And in the red, red wine,

But when he looked upon the bride

The tears ran from his eyne.

Now when the dew was falling

And even was well-nigh sped,

Up she rose, the beauteous bride,

To seek the bridal-bed.

They followed her, the beauteous bride,

All to her chamber door;

Foremost went Ebbe Skammelson

To hold the torch before.

All to the door of the upper room

Ebbe the bride led he:

“Hast thou forgot, proud Adelus,

The troth thou didst plight to me?”

“All the troth I plighted thee

Is given to Peter thy brother;

But each and every day I live

I’ll be to thee e’en as a mother!”

“I wooed thee not for my mother,

I wooed thee for my wife!

For this shall Peter Skammelson

Yield up to me his life!

“Lithe and listen, proud Adelus,

And fly from the land with me!

Peter my brother I’ll slay eftsoon,

And bear the blame for thee.”

The services of the vassal, by German law, belonged from birth to his