“And wilt thou slay Peter thy brother eftsoon_Danish ballads

I never will be thy wage!

And thou shalt sorrow thyself to death

Like a wild bird in a cage.”

It was Ebbe Skammelson

That drew his brand so brown;

It was haughty Adelus

That he to earth struck down.

Oh, he has hidden the bloody brand

Beneath his cloak of pall;

He’s sought his brother Sir Peter

That sat in the stone-built hall.

“Now harken, Peter Skammelson,

A laggard art thou to wed!

The bride is longing after thee

All in the bridal-bed.”

It was Peter his brother

Spake up with mickle spite:

“I give thee leave with right good-will

To sleep by the bride to-night!”

It was Ebbe Skammelson

That drew his brand so brown;

It was Peter his brother

That he to earth struck down.

Oh, he has wounded his father sore,

And struck off his mother’s hand;

And so must he roam, Ebbe Skammelson,

The wild ways of the land!

—Therefore roams Ebbe Skammelson so many a lonely way.

XII, XIII

OH, SEVENTY-SEVEN TWICE-TOLD WERE THEY

HOLGER DANSKE AND STOUT DIDRIK

These Ballads are two of a large group celebrating popular legendary

heroes. Those concerned with Didrik—all jovial ones with happy

endings—were adapted or translated from the work of the wandering German

minstrels known as the “Saxon Singers,” who visited Denmark during the

time of Knud Lavard and Sven Grade (1131-57). Part of this poetry,

moreover, apparently trickled into Scandinavia by circuitous routes,

since a lengthy “Didrikssaga” was composed during the thirteenth century

at Bergen.

There are those who consider Didrik as a mere Mrs. Harris, and derive

his name from the vague appellation þioðreke = folk-king. But most

authorities believe that he had a flesh-and-blood original in Theoderic,

King of the East Goths, and conqueror of Italy, whose royal seat was at

“Bern,” _i. e._ Verona. Be that as it may, this kingly shade enlisted

his champions among the most august phantoms of the North. Sivord

Snarensvend, for example, is no less a personage than Sigurd Fafnirsbane;

while Helled Haagen is Hogne the Hero, Sigurd’s slayer. Raadengaard may

(or may not) be the Hrothgar of “Beowulf,” and the “Sir Aldingar” of

British ballad. Most of the other figures may be pursued through the

mazes of legend; but Falkvor the Fiddler is a creation of the “fiddling”

minstrel’s; and he or his translator inserted Tetlev Danske as a

compliment to the Danes.

As for Holger Danske, he is the French hero Ogier le Danois, originally

one of Charlemagne’s champions, who fought for Christendom against the

infidel. The oldest Danish ballad of Holger describes his victory over

Burmand, an amorous Troll, who would fain carry off the Lady Gloriant,

the King of Hungary’s daughter, from her rightful lover King Karvel. This

chivalrous deed of Holger’s captivated the popular fancy, which adopted

him henceforth as national hero, crowned him with the “red, red gold” and

pictured him as defending Denmark against the power of the German Empire,

personified in the giants Sverting and Bermer-Ris. “Holger Danske and

Stout Didrik may,” says Olrik, “be considered Denmark’s first patriotic

song.”

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

version).

“Up spake a berne upon the bent

Of comfort that was not cold,

And said: We have brente Northumberland,

We have all wealth in hold.

“Now we have harried all Bambroughshire,

All the wealth in the world have we;

I rede we ride to Newcastle

So still and stalworthlie!”

XII

OH, SEVENTY-SEVEN TWICE-TOLD WERE THEY

Oh, seventy-seven twice-told were they

When out from Hald they went,

And when they came to Brattingsborg

They pitched the silken tent.

—There sounds thunder the captains under, when they ride forth.

King Isung stands on high watch-tower,

And looks forth far and wide:

“Oh, little care for their lives have they

That hither list to ride!

“Now harken, Sivord Snarensvend,

Hast wandered here and there;

Tell me what warriors are they

These golden shields that bear?”

“There shineth on the foremost shield

A lion all so bold;

The bearing of Didrik the King it is,

With a crown of ruddy gold.

“And shining on the second shield

Hammer and tongs appear;

The sign of Vidrik Verlandson

That takes no prisoner.

“And on the third shield shining see

A golden serpent, bound;

That beareth Master Hildebrand,

Cunning in counsel found.

“And on the fourth shield, see where shines

A leafy linden-tree;

That beareth youthful Humlunger,

Earl Hornbook’s son is he.

“There shineth on the following shield

A wolf in a wild wood,

The sign of Ulv van Jærn the young

Who is a warrior good.

“And on the sixth there shineth still

A vulture red as gold;

And that bears Helled Haagen

Who is a champion bold.

“And see, the seventh shining shield

Fiddle and bow doth keep,

The sign of Falkvor Minstrel-Man

Would liefer drink than sleep.

“And on the eighth an elephant

Is pictured with a swain,

The sign of Tetlev Danske

That swings his sword amain.

“All on the ninth shield shining, lo

A swarthy vulture shows,

The sign of young Sir Raadengaard

Full many a rune who knows.

“And on the tenth shield, lo there shine

Two arrows wan and white,

He bears them, Hvitting Hermandson,

Is foremost still in fight.

“There shines on the eleventh shield

Nought but a burning brand;

That bears Sir Brand Vidfærling

Against all lordling’s land.

“And on the twelfth shield shining, see,

There stands a cowl so grey;

That bears the monk, Brother Alsing,

Would follow fain the fray!”

“Now harken, Sivord Snarensvend,

Thou art a warrior free!

Shalt fight with one of Didrik’s men

For all my land and me!”

Up stood Sivord Snarensvend,

And to the tents he hied:

“Now is there ever a warrior stout

A joust with me will ride?”

Oh, on the board they cast the dice

That fell both far and wide,

And the lot it was young Humlunger’s

With Sivord there to ride.

It was he, young Humlunger,

Did forth to Vidrik speed:

“Now I will give thee a pledge to hold

Wilt lend me Skemming thy steed.”

“Oh, Sivord sees not the point of his spear,

Because his sight is dim,

And if my Skemming to-day wins scathe

Nor thou nor thy kinsfolk can pay for him!”

“But I, I have a sister

Is fairer than maidens all;

And if thy Skemming wins scathe to-day

I’ll pay it her hand withal.”

“Oh, nought of Skemming thou’lt see to-day

Unless thy surety firm doth stand;

The hand I’ll have of thy sister fair,

And seven castles in Birtingsland!”

“Seven castles in Birtingsland

Thy surety they shall be;

Thereto the maid my sister,

A pledge of price for thee!”

Oh, he has backed that steed so bold,

And gaily ridden away;

Good sooth, but Skemming thought it strange

To feel the spur that day!

The gold did shine upon his shield

Like the sun in summer-tide:

“God help me now, a simple swain,

The brunt to bear and bide!”

The first course that they ran together

Would neither champion yield;

And both their shields were shattered there,

And hurled so far afield.

“Methinks thou art a fair young swain,

That well can run and ride!

Go now and take thy shield again,

And I the brunt will bide.”

And when they ran the second course,

Then one of them must yield;

Young Humlunger was stricken,

And hurled so far afield.

“Oh, I have struck thee down to earth,

And wounded thy steed alsò;

Now whence thou comest, thou fair young swain,

Full fain am I to know.”

“Oh, Hornbook hight my father,

In Birtingsland is lord,

And I am called young Humlunger

Whenas I ride abroad.”

“Full well I know thy father,

For comrades kind we were;

Now take thy shield and mount again,

Son of my sister dear!

“And take thou up my shattered shield,

Bind me to oaken tree;

Then ride and tell the champions

The game is won by thee!”

Forth to the tents fared Humlunger,

Cast blade upon the board:

“Now have I bound the grey-beard carle

That spake the vaunting word!”

“Now hold thy peace, young Humlunger,

That aye must prate thy fill!

If thou hast bound him, Sivord,

’Tis with his own good-will!”

Up stood Vidrik Verlandson,

Bade saddle his steed so free:

“I will fare forth to the forest,

This conquered carle to see!”

Oh, Sivord all in the greenwood

Saw where the knight did ride;

Up by the roots he reft the oak,

For he might not his bonds abide.

Up by the roots he reft the oak,

For he might not his bonds abide:

“If Vidrik Verlandson comes here

My ribs he’ll hew from my side!”

The Queen stood in the lofty bower,

And looked both up and down:

“Oh, hither comes Sivord Snarensvend

A-bearing summer to town!”

The Queen looked out with her ladies

All from the lofty bower:

“Sivord hath been in good greenwood

And gathered a gallant flower!”

Gay went the dance at Brattingsborg,

Where champions danced amain;

There danced with oak-tree in his belt

Sivord the purblind swain!

—There sounds thunder the captains under, when they ride forth.

XIII

HOLGER DANSKE AND STOUT DIDRIK

Stout Didrik dwells in Berneland

With brethren eight all told,

And each of them twelve sons hath got,

All doughty knights and bold.

—But the battle is raging northward up in Jutland.

Stout Didrik dwells in Berneland

With fifteen sisters bright,

And each of them hath twelve fair sons

That hold their lives full light.

And when they rode out all by Bern,

A goodly companie,

Sooth to say, each warrior

Was tall as a beechen tree.

“Now we have fought o’er all the world

And conquered far and wide,

And we have heard of Holger Dansk

That doth in Denmark bide.

“We have heard tell of Holger Dansk,

In Jutland doth abide,

And he is crowned with the red, red gold.

And ne’er will bate his pride.”

Oh, Sverting seized a pike of steel,

And spake up loud and high:

“A hundred of Holger Danske’s men

I count them not a fly!”

“Oh, harken, Sverting, thou swarthy swain,

Or ever thou rue the day!

We ha’ heard of Holger Danske’s men,

And bold young blades are they!”

Up and spake tall Bermer-Ris,

And a vaunting word spake he:

“Oh, we will fare to Denmark,

And try if the King will flee!”

Now all with eighteen thousand steeds

From Berneland they fare,

And they’ve drawn up to Denmark

To see King Holger there.

Stout Didrik hath sent a messenger

And bidden King Holger yield,

To pay him scot and lot for aye,

Or meet him in the field.

Up spake Vidrik Verlandson,

He spake a word so stout:

“And come they in to Denmark thus,

They shall not thus go out!”

Oh, they have met, a mighty host,

All on the darksome heath;

And that was a woeful trysting-place

Where warriors fought till death.

They’ve fought for a day, for three they’ve fought,

And stiff in stower they stand;

Holger the King and his mighty men

Slew many from Berneland.

Oh, mild of mood was Bermer-Ris,

And softly spake he then:

“Now how shall we conquer Holger Dansk

With scarce a hundred men?”

It was doughty Didrik

Looked upward to the sky:

“No help is here for us, I ween,

’Tis time to turn and fly!”

Stout Didrik took to both his legs,

To fly o’er hill and dale,

And Sverting went the self-same way

For all his boastful tale.

Up spake little Iron-Wolf,

That held the hill beside:

“Oh, they that are come to fight the Danes

Have little praise or pride!”

When they rode out of Berneland

They were eighteen thousand men;

’Twas scarce a tithe of all that host

That won back home again.

Oh, stern the stream of red, red blood

Ran o’er land and lea!

The reek of it rose up to heaven

Till the sun was bloody and red to see.

—But the battle is raging northward up in Jutland.

BALLADS OF MAGIC

XIV

YOUNG SVEJDAL

A certain number of Ballads borrowed their subjects from the Old Norse

Lays, making of them, not translations, but fresh creations; for the

Lays tower above the many-coloured ballad-world like ice-peaks that loom

over flowery meads. The story of Young Svejdal is derived from two Lays

dealing with the adventures of Svipdag, who wakes Menglad from her trance

on the magic mountain; but

“there is a vast difference between the simplicity of the

Ballad and the stately measure and rhetorical pomp of the

original:—

‘Svipdag is my name; Sunbright was my father’s name;

The winds have driven me far, along cold ways;

No one can gainsay the word of Fate,

Though it be spoken to his own destruction.’

“The difference is as great as the difference between the

ballad of the ‘Marriage of Gawayne’ and the same story as told

in the _Canterbury Tales_; or the difference between Homer’s

way of describing the recovery of lifted cattle and the ballad

of ‘Jannie Telfer of the Fair Dodhead’” (W. P. Ker’s _Epic and

Romance_, chap. ii., section 3).

This Ballad, indeed, brings down the story from the misty peaks of

Valhalla into the garrulous region of fairy-tale. It is faithful to the

primitive tradition which depicts the dead as waking unwillingly from

their slumbers. Svejdal’s mother speaks as does the dead Vala in the

nameless Lay called “Baldr’s Doom” by the editors of the _Corpus Poeticum

Boreale_:

“Hvat es manna þat mer okunnra

es mer hefir aukit ervitt sinni?

Vas-ek snivin sniovi ok slegin regni,

ok drifin doeggo; dauð vas-ek lengi.”

(Who is the man unknown to me that has put me to this weary journey? I

was snowed on with snow, and smitten with rain, and dripped on with dew;

dead was I lang syne.)

The refrain is:

“Nauðig sagðak. Nú mun-ek þegja!”

(Loath have I spoken. Now must I be silent!) Gray, in his translation,

“The Descent of Odin,” puts it with eighteenth-century elegance:

“Again my wearied eyes I close,

Leave me, leave me to repose!”

and readers of _Mansfield Park_ will remember how fitly these words are

applied to the languid speech of Lady Bertram. A “clever fancy” on the

part of the Norns, to spin this slender thread connecting Jane Austen (of

all people!) with the “Runick savages boozing ale!” Had she known more of

them, she would doubtless have agreed with Frederick the Great, that all

their works were not worth a charge of powder, and that she would have no

such stuff in her library.

XIV

YOUNG SVEJDAL

It was he, young Svejdal,

Was playing at the ball;

The ball flew into the maiden’s breast,

And her cheeks grew white withal.

—Choose thy words well!

The ball flew into the maiden’s bower,

And after went the swain,

And or ever he left the bower behind

She dreed full bitter pain.

“Oh, never shouldst thou venture

To throw thy ball to me!

There sits a maid in a far-off land

A-longing after thee.

“Oh, ne’er shalt thou seek slumber,

And never rest shalt know,

Until thou hast loosed the lovely maid

That long hath lain in woe!”

It was he, young Svejdal,

Wrapped him in cloak of vair,

And to the hall betook him

To seek the captains there.

“Now sit in peace, my captains,

And pledge your healths in mead,

Whiles I fare forth to the grave-mound

To seek my mother’s rede!”

It was he, young Svejdal,

That loud did cry and call,

Till the marble-stone was rent and riven

And the mound was nigh to fall.

“Oh, who is it that wakes me?

Who calls with cry so bold?

May I not lie and sleep in peace

All under darksome mould?”

“It is I, young Svejdal,

Only son o’ thine!

And all I ask is counsel good

From thee, dear mother mine.

“My sister and my stepmother

Have made me pale and pine,

All for a lovely lady

That ne’er I saw with eyne.”

“I will give thee a palfrey

Shall serve thy need, I ween!

He can go as well o’er the salt sea-swell

As over the land so green.

“A sword I will give thee also,

Is tempered in dragon’s blood,

And it will shine like a burning brand

When thou ridest the darksome wood.”

It was he, young Svejdal,

That spurred his steed so free;

Forth he rode thro’ darksome wood

And over the wide sea.

It was he, young Svejdal,

That rode ’twixt sea and land;

And he was ’ware of a herdsman there

That drove his flock to the strand.

“Lithe and list, good herdsman,

And speak thou sooth to me!

Who is it owns the flock so fair

Thou drivest down to the sea?”

“Oh, a maiden there is in this countrie

Lies spellbound in dule and pine,

All for a swain hight Svejdal

That never she saw with eyne.”

“And knowest thou where the maiden dwells,

Then hide it not from me!

Whenas I am king of all this land

A knight I’ll make of thee.”

“Oh, yonder under the linden green

There stands my lady’s hold;

The towers are all of the marble grey,

And the doors are decked with gold!

“The towers are all of the marble grey,

And the doors are decked with gold!

Full seven years are over and gone

Since she did sun behold.

“There stands a bear by my lady’s bower,

And a lion so fell to see,

But art thou Svejdal in very sooth

Thou shalt pass by them free.”

Forth he fared, young Svejdal,

And up to the hold he went;

All the locks that held it

Were riven asunder and rent.

The bear and the lordly lion

They followed him from the door;

The linden with all its silvery leaves

Bowed down to earth before.

The linden bowed adown to earth

With every silver leaf:

And up she stood, the maiden proud,

That long had lain in grief.

Up she waked, the maiden proud,

When she heard the spurs a-ringing:

“Now thanks be unto God in heaven

Who help to me is bringing!”

In he went, Sir Svejdal,

That was both young and fair;

It was the haughty maiden

That hailed his entrance there.

“Welcome to thee, young Svejdal,

Thou noble lord of mine!

Now praised be God in heaven

Hath loosed us from pain and pine!”

—Choose thy words well!

THORD OF HAFSGAARD

Here we have the Old Norse Lay of Thrym (þrymskviða) recast and trolled

forth by a mediæval minstrel. He has been faithful to the grim jollity

of the original poem; but, as his lilting verse has lost the trenchant

battle-axe swing of the old alliterative metre, so the tale he tells

is shorn of the epic dignity surrounding Valhalla and the gods. On the

restoration of the Thunderer’s hammer hangs the fate of the Æsir in their

endless warfare with the Frost Giants; its loss is a calamity such as was

never known in heaven nor earth. When Freyja is asked to play the Bride,

her stamp shakes the celestial floor. When Thor drives to the wedding

feast, earth burns under his chariot wheels. Whereas the Thord of the

Ballad might, for aught we are told, be a mere bonnet-laird; and it is

only by implication that we gather any idea of his hammer’s importance.

The erudite M. Pineau (_Étude sur les Chants Populaires Scandinaves_) is

puzzled and pained by these variations and omissions—notably that of the

Æsir’s council, and of Thor’s indignation at the idea of assuming bridal

attire. “Don’t tell me,” he exclaims indignantly, “that this scene of

all others could be forgotten by the popular imagination!” The Eddie

Lays, according to him, jealously guarded by the priests, were never

known to the people at large; and he goes so far as to declare that the

source alike of Lay and Ballad must be sought in some older, and now

non-existent, form of the story. M. Pineau, in short, is a Necessitarian,

who will not allow free-will to poets. Why should not the minstrel pick

and choose his incidents? Why, on M. Pineau’s own showing, should not the

Lay have reached him in fragmentary form? The student must decide for

himself; suffice it meanwhile to say that the Ballad is a capital one,

and the “merry jest” at the end a racy substitute for the ferocious pun

which concludes the original, at the expense of the Giant’s mother:

“For pence a pound was what she won.”

THORD OF HAFSGAARD

It was Thord of Hafsgaard o’er the blowing meads did ride,

There he lost his hammer of gold, and sought for it far and wide.

It was Thord of Hafsgaard spake with his brother bold:

“Thou must fare to Norrefjeld, and seek my hammer of gold!”

It was little Loki that donned his feather-fell,

Forth he flew to Norrefjeld, all over the salt sea-swell.

All in the castle-garth his garment changèd he,

Then entered in the stone-built hall, the Giant-King to see.

“Now welcome, little Loki, be thou right welcome here!

How fares the country round Hafsgaard, and the land that lies anear?”

“Well fares the country round Hafsgaard, and the land that lies anear,

But Thord hath lost his hammer of gold, and therefore am I come here.”

“Never shall Thord have his hammer again, altho’ ye seek and strive!

Under the earth ’tis buried deep, full fifty fathom and five!

“Never shall Thord have his hammer again (for ye shall buy it dear),

Till ye bring me your sister Fredensborg, with all your goods and gear!”

It was little Loki that donned his feather-fell,

Forth he flew on the homeward way, all over the salt sea-swell.

All in the castle-garth his garment changèd he,

Then entered in the stone-built hall, his brother dear to see.

“Never shall Thord have his hammer again, altho’ we seek and strive,

Under the earth ’tis buried deep full fifty fathom and five!

“Never shall Thord have his hammer again (for we must buy it dear),

Till we take him our sister Fredensborg, with all our goods and gear!”

The maiden seated on the bench she up and spake to him:

“Oh, give me to a christened man, and not to a goblin grim!”

“Now we will take our father, and comb his locks with care,

And lead him up to Norrefjeld, all for a bride so fair!”

Now true is the tale I tell ye, they took that fair young bride,

They spared no costly plenishing to deck her out with pride.

They seated her, that beauteous bride, upon the bridal-seat;

Forth he came, the Giant-King, full fain the maid to greet.

An ox that lusty bride devoured, and thirty salted swine,

And drank, ere she could slake her thirst, twelve tuns of good red wine!

The Giant-King he paced the floor, and wrathful was his mood:

“Who e’er beheld a beauteous bride fall thus upon her food?”

Up spake little Loki, beneath his cloak smiled he:

“For seven days she ate no meat, so sore she longed for thee!”

Stayed upon a mighty tree by seven champions bold,

Up to the knees of the maiden they bore the hammer of gold.

Up she rose, the bride, and took the hammer in her hand;

Good sooth, I say, she swung it light as a willow wand!

She slew the King o’ the Giants, that Troll so fierce and grim,

And the lesser Trolls that sought the feast, she slew them after him.

It was little Loki that spake a merry jest:

“Our father he is a widow now, to lead him home were best!”

XVI

THE AVENGING SWORD

This fine Ballad (admired by Andrew Lang) is unique in its mingling

of pagan and Christian sentiment. The hero, who in his Bersark

blood-lust spares neither wife, maid, nor suckling—whose brother the

sword is possessed by a demon—who has ranged the world in pursuit of

revenge—ranges it again as a penitent pilgrim, bound, for the heavier

penance, in iron chains. Since, however, the Ballads concern themselves

little with ecclesiastical orthodoxy, the penance is depicted as ending,

not at any saintly shrine, but at the grave of his enemy.

The belief that the warrior’s favourite weapons were animated by

a mysterious personality is familiar to all students of Old Norse

literature. One celebrated example occurs in Njàls Saga, 79, when Høgni,

stealing out with Skarpheðinn by night to avenge the death of Gunnar,

takes down the dead hero’s halberd, and hears it singing aloud. (The

O.N. impersonal idiom, “it sang in the halberd,” hints at the indwelling

soul.) “Then sprang up Rannveig (Gunnar’s mother) and cried in bitter

wrath, ‘Who is taking the halberd, which I forbade all men to touch?’

‘I would carry it,’ said Høgni, ‘to my father, that he may have it in

Valhalla, and bear it at the Weapon Thing.’ ‘Further than that,’ said

she, ‘wilt thou bear it, even to thy father’s avenging, for the halberd

declares the death of one man or more.’”

That magical forces, once unchained, might end by destroying their

liberator—that the naming of the name conferred power over the name’s

possessor—are superstitions common to almost all primitive races.

Versions of this Ballad exist in Swedish, Norwegian, and Faroëse.

XVI

THE AVENGING SWORD

Sir Peter rode to the castle door,

The King of Danes he stood before.

—Forward, hurrah! ride forward.

“Welcome, Sir Peter, comrade mine!

Say, hast thou avenged that sire o’ thine?”

“Oh, I ha’ been so southerly

Until the sun bowed down to me.

“And I ha’ been so westerly

Until the sun sank near to me.

“And I ha’ been so northerly

Until the frost was frore to see.

“And I ha’ been so easterly

Until the day was fair to see;

“But never did I find the wight

Could rede me my father’s death aright!”

“Oh, say, what wilt thou give the wight

Can rede thee thy father’s death aright?”

“Of silver he shall have his fill,

And of golden coin whate’er he will!

“Yea, more I’ll give to him,

A ship in sailing-trim!”

He smiled, the King, his words to heed:

“Here stands he that did the deed!