Out they sailed from Hornelummer,
Well-pleased with the fair adventure;
The hill he blocked with a mighty stone,
That none therein might enter.
Thanks, thanks to Olaf our gallant king!
He wrought a goodly charm!
Now men may sail by Hornelummer,
And take no hurt nor harm.
Red as the ruddy gold, the sun sets over Trondhjem.
SIR KARL’S LYKEWAKE
It was young Sir Karel,
His mother’s rede did pray
If he should to the convent ride,
And bear his love away.
(The roses and the lilies all a-blowing.)
“Lo, on a bier thou’lt lay thee down,
A corse so white and wan—
And never a one shall ask of thee
If thou art a living man.”
Late, so late at even,
Sore sickness on him fell;
All in the early morning
They tolled for him the bell.
They took him, young Sir Karel,
And streeked him for a corpse;
And all to bear the tidings round,
His page has taken horse.
Upon his bier they bore him
To the convent door so wide—
The Prioress came to meet them
With mickle pomp and pride.
Forth then went his little page,
Was clad in the scarlet red—
He bade the maidens come to watch—
“For young Sir Karl is dead.”