Delphi Complete Works of George Borrow 1st ed. (2023), page 392
part #1 of Delphi Classics Series
Whereon doth hang thy trusty sword.
“The knobs on thy belt of tough, tough felt,
The foeman’s number will tell I ween;
Beware, I say, of Monk hoods grey
Concealing warriors stern and keen.”
To catch the maid the King essay’d,
His heart was bent yet more on learning;
Then slipped away the woodland fay,
Suddenly into vapour turning.
As long as stay’d with him the maid
Both light and fire his sight did cheer,
But as soon, as soon as she was gone
With Ranild he stood in the bush so drear.
Then the King for advice to Ranild cries,
And Ranild the traitor answer’d thus:
“From out this place our way we’ll trace,
For here no moon can shine on us.
“If I be right, a hamlet hight
Grey Tinderup not far doth lie;
This night we’d best in Tinderup rest,
My liege, I think for a certainty.
“And thither we’ll ride, and there we’ll bide,
Until the moon has risen on high;
By Mary’s might no mortal wight
Will do thee any injury.”
So they ride away to Tinderup grey,
And loud for lodging, lodging shout;
But they came so late that every gate
Was lock’d, and fires and lights put out.
Then their steeds they turn to Tinderup barn,
No mortal knew that they were there;
To the King I wot the thought came not
That he was now to his end so near.
But Erik’s breast was not at rest,
And thus to Ranild the lad he cried:
“O make the door both fast and sure,
I fast and sure in thee confide.
“Do thou the door with a stake secure,
I’ve ever found thee faithful yet;
In mind I hold that Stig is bold,
And oft I think upon his threat.”
“I’ve driven a pin the floor within,
And plac’d a balk against the door;
By Mary bright no mortal wight
To move that mighty balk has power.
“Marsk Stig is hot, I deny it not,
And wondrous words he thunders out;
But be of good cheer my master dear,
He o’er his table sits no doubt.
“The lapwing bird each spot can guard
Upon the face of the verdant field,
Except alone the knoll whereon
Its nest the bird is wont to build.”
No pin or stake did Ranild take,
He was I wean a lying cheat;
I tell to ye, for a verity,
He only took two straws of wheat.
And for all his talk ’twas no thick balk
He plac’d for the door’s security,
But a wheat-sheaf light which the gust of night
From the door removed instantly.
Scarce on the groun’ had they laid them down,
On the groun’ of the barn so cold and hard,
When of Ingeborg Dame the avengers came,
Spurring amain to the peasant’s gard.
Into the yard came riding hard
The fatal monks of orders grey;
No pause they made, to the place they sped
Where well they knew that the Monarch lay.
Upon the door their blows they shower,
With faulchion struck they and with spear;
“Come out, come out, Sir King,” they shout,
“The Dame has sent to greet thee here.”
To them in reply did Ranild cry,
And thus the Ranild youth began:
“No King is here, no King is near,
No King nor any such a man.”
Then swift and fast Sir Ranild cast
Over his Lord both straw and hay,
But points with his hand to the in-rushing band
The spot where the hapless Monarch lay.
They extinguish’d straight the wax light great
That burn’d the head of the Monarch o’er;
Then round the King they stood in a ring,
With blades athirst for his dearest gore.
“O Ranild hear, my servant dear,
If thou wilt only fight for me,
My sister bright to thee I’ll plight,
And she thy wedded wife shall be.”
Then he hew’d for his Lord on the broad, broad board,
And on the balk he hew’d so brave;
He hew’d hither, and he hew’d thither —
He fought for his master like a knave.
Full in the breast their stabs they address’d,
As near to the heart as well might be;
With wounds so sore, forty and more,
Miserably murder’d the King was he.
At him they bored with spear and sword,
No rest to him the Monks allow’d;
When done was the deed each took his steed,
And away with frantic fury rode.
This happ’d on the night of Cecily bright,
The season it was so bright and holy.
The King is dead, his blood is shed,
But Ingeborg still is melancholy.
“Now who will bear to Viborg fair
The corpse of the King across the green?
And who will go with the tale of woe
To Skanderborough where sits the Queen?”
Then ride would none to Viborg town,
And attend the corse across the green;
But rose up amain a little swain,
And he would ride to the Danish Queen.
Uprose amain the little swain,
And not long idle I ween he stay’d;
He tore from the grey the saddle away,
And that on the back of the white he laid.
“Hail gracious Queen so fair of mien,
Who sittest clad in scarlet red;
A traitorous train the King have slain,
In Tinderup barn he lieth dead.
“They stabbed him with might in his bosom white,
Their points came out of his royal side;
Take thou good care of the youthful heir,
Who Denmark’s realm is doomed to guide.
“Take heed, take heed of the land I rede,
And of this royal Castelaye;
‘Bove every thing of the youthful King,
Who in after time shall Denmark sway.”
“Thou little lad thy tale is sad,
And it fills my heart with grief and pain;
But thee I’ll prize for thy advice,
And clothe and feed thee whilst I reign.”
It happ’d on the night of Cecily bright,
In that sweet season blest and holy,
Vengeance has sped, the King is dead —
But Ingeborg still is melancholy.
PART IV.
There were seven and seven times twenty
That met upon the verdant wold:
“Say, what emprise shall we devise
Now Denmark’s Lord is stark and cold?
“Our Lord we’ve slain, a corse he lies,
The band of peace we thus have riven;
Within the land we can make no stand,
From land and friends we now are driven.
“But we will ride to Skanderborg,
And a visit to the Queen will pay,
We’ll see how fares amid her cares
The Dame ere we depart for aye.
“It was her wont to jeer and scoff,
But now therewith she must have done;
The fire is come to the scorner’s home,
And pity her I ween can none.”
Marsk Stig he into the saddle sprang,
For his daring deed he felt no sorrow;
He spurr’d his horse and bent his course,
With his armed host to Skanderborough.
It was the Danish Queen so fine,
She look’d from out the window high:
“O there doth ride Marsk Stig,” she cried,
“With his knight in iron panoply.
“Ha, welcome, Stig, thou self-made King,
May’st quickly meet the guerdon due;
If God doth spare the youthful heir,
Full bitter fruit he’ll make thee chew.”
“Lady, I am no self-made King,
Although it please thee so to say;
But I can name the knight of fame
Who last with thee, fair lady, lay.
“Little thou mind’st King Erik’s death,
But briny tears thou soon wouldst shed,
If thou hadst lost the gallant Drost,
Who’s wont at night to share thy bed.”
“O shame upon the murderers foul
Who basely slew my lord and joy;
And shame befall both thee and all
My Queenly honour would destroy.”
Then up spoke Erik Erikson,
The little King who was standing by:
“When I’m up-grown and bear the crown
Full quickly thou shalt Denmark fly.”
Then up stood little Christopher,
And courage sparkled in his eye:
“To hang them all were vengeance small
For my dear father’s injury.”
“And if the land I’m forc’d to quit,
And upon the chilly billows lie,
I’ll work revenge and havoc strange,
And mostly ‘mong the great and high.
“And if from hence I’m forc’d to go,
And outlaw’d live in cave and wood,
From Denmark’s land with spear and brand
Summer and Yule I’ll fetch me food.”
Then away from Skanderborg he rode,
And his fist he shook against the towers;
And with his troop to Molderup,
To seek his Ingeborg, he scours.
It was the young Sir Marshal Stig,
He took his wife in his embrace;
“Now lieth slain the cursed bane
Of all our love and happiness.
“Now wilt thou brave stern poverty,
And follow bold a man exil’d?
Or wilt thou stay, and every day
Be harlot, Erik’s harlot, styl’d?”
“O could I even Queen become
The hated name I would not bear;
My thanks, the best of this poor breast,
For slaying him the ravisher.
“But we are allied to Counts and Knights,
And mighty men of high degree,
So do not fear the little heir,
Nor for a child the country flee.
“Count Jacob of Halland, and Peter Pors,
Bluefod and Kagg, at any hour
Will back our cause, and sturdy Claus,
The Halland’sfar, and many more.
“There’s Erik King of Norroway,
To him your knightly hand extend,
For he a host and fleet can boast,
And host and fleet he’ll gladly lend.
“If thou upon the peak of Helm
But build a castle strong and fast,
Thou need’st not quail for arrowy hail,
Nor dread the engine’s deadly cast.
“And now for long, long winters nine
I’ve hid my care within my breast;
A worm gnaws sore my bosom’s core,
Good night, my Lord! I sink to rest.”
Marsk Stig he took her in his arm,
“The high God lengthen yet thy day!
Our best advice is now to prize
The hoary rocks of Norroway.”
Marsk Stig he speeds, to Helm proceeds,
And soon inclos’d a fitting space;
I tell to ye for verity,
Before him palen’d many a face.
Marsk Stig he builds on Helm a keep,
With massive walls and towers high;
His raging foes besiege it close,
Germans and Danes, but vainly try.
Out into the field the peasant goes,
And there the peasant sows his corn:
“O God of might, what wondrous sight
The Helm, the Helm has got a horn!
“O welladay on the poor boors grey,
When Stig the Marshal’s bed was stain’d;
For us I ween it had better been
If Glepping had unborn remain’d.
“Whene’er within the good green wood
The oaks so mighty chance to fall,
They crush to the ground the hazels round,
And all the other trees so small.
“The sins of Kings and noblemen
Upon the poor fall heavily;
God look with grace on the peasant’s case,
And relieve him from his misery!”
Marsk Stig’s Daughters, and Other Songs and Ballads (1914)
CONTENTS
MARSK STIG’S DAUGHTERS
THE THREE EXPECTANTS
TRANSLATION
THE ENGLISH GIPSY
GIPSY SONG
OUR HEART IS HEAVY, BROTHER
SONG
LINES
MARSK STIG’S DAUGHTERS
Two daughters fair the Marshal had,
O grievous was their fate and sad.
The eldest she took her sister’s hand
And away they went to Sweden’s land.
Home from the Stevn King Byrgye rode;
Up to him Marsk Stig’s daughters trode.
“What women ye who beset my gate?
What brings ye hither at eve so late?”
“Daughters of Stig, the Marshal brave,
So earnestly thee for help we crave.”
“Hence, hence away, ye outcasts two,
Your sire accurst my uncle slew.”
“Guiltless are we of Erik’s blood,
So wide we wander in quest of food.”
The eldest she takes her sister’s hand,
And away they went into Norway’s land.
Home from the Ting King Erik rode
Up to him Marsk Stig’s daughters trode.
“What women are ye whom here I view,
And what may ye in my country do?”
“Daughters of Stig, the Marshal brave
So earnestly thee for help we crave.”
“To brew and bake full well ye know” —
“Alas, Sir King, not so, not so.
“To brew and bake we do not know,
We never stoop’d to employ so low.
“To spin red gold that is our pride,
Our mother taught us ere she died.
“And we can weave galloon as well
As the maidens with the Queen that dwell.
“We can weave red gold with wool,
But oh, our hearts with grief are full.
“Had Marsk Stig stay’d in Denmark green,
Different far our fate had been.
“Had Ingeborg not chanc’d to die,
We had not borne this misery.”
King Erik replied in gentle tone:
“I knew your father like my own;
“He was a man in heart and hand,
Whose like lives not in any land.”
O’er them he threw his mantle red,
To the ladies’ chamber them he led.
He bade them no more tears to shed,
For he would stand in their father’s stead.
The eldest sister began the weft,
The youngest finished what she left.
In the first lace she wove so true
The Virgin Mary and Christ Jesu.
And in the second of Norway land
She wove the Queen and her maiden band.
Of the antler’d hart they wove the chase,
They wove themselves with pallid face.
They wove with nimble fingers small
Of God the holy Angels all.
The youngest sister the woof up caught,
And that before the Queen she brought.
Then into her eyes the tears they came,
“Thou art not our Mother, Queenly Dame.
“Wert thou our mother or sister dear,
With praises thou our hearts wouldst cheer.
“But in thine eye no praise I see,
Misfortune is our destiny.”
The eldest sicken’d, and sick she lay,
The youngest tended her night and day.
The eldest died of grief of heart,
The youngest liv’d with sorrow and smart.
THE THREE EXPECTANTS
There are three for my death that now pine,
Though one and all wondrous civil;
Would that all of them hung on a line,
My children, the worms, and the Devil.
My body, my soul, and my gear,
When down to the grave I descend,
The three hope among them to share,
And to revel on time without end.
But there is not one of the three,
To the others though kindly affected,
For both of their shares would agree
To resign his own portion expected.
The Devil, so harsh and austere,
Who only in evil hath joy,
Would scorn to take body and gear
For my soul, that sweet beautiful toy.
My children would rather possess
The gear I have toil’d so to gather,
Though for me fervent love they profess,
Than the body and soul of their father.
The worms, though my children will make
A lament when I’m laid in the hole,
Would my body in preference take
To my gear or my beautiful soul.
Oh, Christ! who wast hung on a tree,
And wast pierc’d by a fool in his madness;
Since each of them plund’ring would be,
Send each disappointment and sadness.
TRANSLATION
One summer morn, as I was seeking
My ponies in their green retreat,
I heard a lady sing a ditty
To me which sounded strangely sweet.
I am the ladye, I am the ladye,
I am the ladye loving the knight;
I in the green wood ‘neath the green branches
In the night season sleep with the knight.
Since yonder summer morn of beauty
I’ve seen many a gloomy year;
But in my mind still lives the ditty
That in the green wood met my ear.
I am the ladye, I am the ladye,
I am the ladye loving the knight;
