Chapter 4

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!”

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LONDON: Printed for THOMAS J. WISE, Hampstead, N.W.

_Edition limited to Thirty Copies_.