Sir Dalebo has come to his castle fair and great,
There stood his mother, a-tarrying by the gate—
“Good-morrow!” said Dalebo Jonsen.
“Hearken, dear mother, to what I ask of thee!
What didst thou with the money my foemen paid for me?
I ask it, Sir Dalebo Jonsen.”
“Ah, Dalebo, ah, Dalebo, and wilt thou work me woe?
Never for all the world would I sell thee to thy foe—
I sold thee not, Dalebo Jonsen.”
He drew his shining sword, and struck her where she stood,
And all so small he hewed her as the beech-leaves in the wood—
“Lie thou there!” said Dalebo Jonsen.
Sir Dalebo he mounted his steed of dapple-grey,
And forth he galloped faster than a bird that flies away—
For wroth was Sir Dalebo Jonsen.
Sir Dalebo has ridden to the castle fair and great;
There stood the King o’ Danes, a-tarrying by the gate.
“Good greeting!” said Dalebo Jonsen.
“Hearken now, Sir Dalebo, and look thou tell to me!
Where are they, my champions, I sent of late to thee?
Tell me that, Sir Dalebo Jonsen!”
“Oh some of them are sick, and some of them are sore,
And some are lying still, to rise again no more,
That thou sentest to Dalebo Jonsen.
“Go then, get thy salt, bid thy scullions ready be,
If thou wilt salt the flesh that I have carved for thee!
I rede thee, Sir Dalebo Jonsen.”
“I pray thee, dear Sir Dalebo, now sheathe thy shining brand!
For freely will I give thee mine only daughter’s hand!
I pray thee, Sir Dalebo Jonsen!”