LEGENDARY BALLADS

X
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.

X
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.

XI
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.

XI
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.”

“And wilt thou slay Peter thy brother eftsoon

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.