NATIONAL SONG.
From the Danish of Evald.
Written to commemorate three great naval victories achieved by the three great Danish heroes, Christian, Juul, and Tordenskiold.
King Christian stood beside the mast
In smoke and mist.
His weapons, hammering hard and fast,
Through helms and brains of Gothmen pass’d,
Then sank each hostile sail and mast
In smoke and mist.
“Fly,” said the foe, “fly all that can,
For who can Denmark’s Christian
Resist?”
Niels Juul he mark’d the tempest’s roar:
“Now, now’s the tide!”
He hoists his banner, red as gore,
And plied his foemen aft and fore,
Loud crying ’midst the tempest’s roar:
“Now, now’s the tide!”
“Fly each, who knows a refuge path,
For who can Juul, when hot with wrath,
Abide!”
O North sea, Weasel’s [{50}] flashes rent
Thy vapours dun.
Down to thy bosom heroes went,
For with those flashes death was blent;
From the fight rose a yell which rent
Thy vapours dun.
From Denmark lighteneth Tordenskiold,—
“Yield, yield to heaven’s favourite bold,
And run.”
Thou Danish path to fame and might,
Dark-rolling main!
Receive thy friend, who holds as light
The perils of the stormy fight,
Who braves like thee the tempest’s might,
Dark-rolling main!
Bear me through battle, song and sport,
Until the grave, my final port,
I gain!
SIR SINCLAIR. [{51}]
From the Danish of Edward Storm.
(At the commencement of the last century, Colonel Sinclair, a Scotsman in the service of the King of Sweden, landed upon the coast of Norway, at the time war was raging between the Danish and Swedish crowns, with a band of Scots which he had levied in his native country. After committing much havoc and cruelty, the invaders were destroyed to a man in a conflict with the peasantry, who had assembled in considerable number. Many of the broad-swords lost by the Scots in this encounter are to be seen in the Museum of Copenhagen, trophies of a victory achieved in a hallowed cause—the defence of the father-land against unprovoked aggression.)
Sir Sinclair sail’d from the Scottish ground,
To Norroway o’er he hasted;
On Guldbrand’s rocks his grave he found,
Where his corse in its gore is wasted.
Sir Sinclair sail’d o’er the blue, blue wave,
For Swedish pay he hath sold him,
God help the Scot, for the Norsemen brave
Shall biting the grass behold him.
The moon at night shed pale its light,
The billows are gently swelling;
See a mermaid merge from the briny surge,
To Sir Sinclair evil telling.
“Turn back, turn back, thou bonny Scot:
Thy purpose straight abandon:
To return will not be Sir Sinclair’s lot,
Should Sir Sinclair Norroway land on.”
“A curse on thy strain, thou imp of the main,
Who boding ill art ever!
For what thou dost preach, wert thou in my reach,
Thy limbs I would dissever.”
He sail’d for a day, he sail’d for three,
With all his hired legions;
On the fourth day’s morn Sir Sinclair he
Saw Norroway’s rocky regions.
On Romsdale’s sands he quickly lands,
Himself for a foe declaring;
Him follow’d then twelve hundred men
Such evil intentions bearing.
They vex’d the people, where’er they rov’d,
With pillage and conflagration;
Nor them old age’s feebleness mov’d,
Nor the widow’s lamentation.
The child was slain at the mother’s breast,
Though it smil’d on the murderous savage:
But soon went tidings, east and west,
Of all this wo and ravage.
From neighbour to neighbour the message runs,
On the mountain blaz’d the beacon;
Into lurking-holes crept not the valley’s sons,
As the Scots perchance might reckon.
“The soldiers have follow’d the King to the war,
Ourselves must arm us, brothers!
And he who here his life will spare
Shall be damn’d as a cur by the others.”
The peasants of Vaage, of Laxoe and Lom,
With axes sharp and heavy,
To the gathering at Bredaboig, one and all, come,
On the Scots fierce war to levy.
A pass, which all men Kringe call,
By the foot of the mountain goeth;
The Lauge, wherein the Scots shall fall,
Close, close beside it floweth.
The aged shooters are taking aim,
Each gun has been call’d into duty;
The Naik [{54}] his wet beard uplifts from the stream,
And with longing expects his booty.
Sir Sinclair fell the first, with a yell
His soul escap’d him for ever,
Each Scot loud cried when his leader died;
“May the Lord-God us deliver!”
“Now fierce on the dogs, ye jolly Norse-men,
To the chine strike down and cleave them!”
Then the Scots would fain be at home again,
Their vaunty spirits leave them.
Filling their craws to their hearts content
’Midst carnage the ravens wander’d;
The Scottish maids shall long lament
The young blood on the Kringe squander’d.
Not a single man escap’d, not one,
To his landsmen to tell the story;
’Tis a perilous thing to invade who wone
On Norroway’s mountains hoary.
A pillar still towers on that self-same spot,
Which Norraway’s foes defyeth;
To the Norman wo, whose heart glows not
When he that pillar eyeth.