Up and spake the mermaiden
All under the waning moon:
“Ho, ho for the ship that sails at dawn,
And sinks ere afternoon!
“Ho, ho! for the blood of Ragnar’s breast
On his foeman’s sword is wet!
I laid my love on a mortal man,
And I will have him yet!”
It was Sir Ragnar, the rover bold,
Clung to a floating spar
And drifted in with the turn o’ the tide
Across the harbour-bar.
Oh his look was shent, and his helm was bent,
And his mail was riven and brast,
And the stream that was so clear before
Ran red where’er he passed.
Red, red his blood ran down the flood—
And, wavering, drowned, and dim,
Like the face of death, from the dark beneath,
The cold moon stared at him.
Into the hall Sir Ragnar went—
God wot, his face was pale!
The spray was on his dinted helm,
The red blood on his mail.
“Turn round, turn round, thou beauteous bride!
Turn round and look on me!
Say, wilt thou wed a living man,
Or a dead man out o’ the sea?”
She took him in her lily-white arms—
She kissed him on the brow—
“I loved thee well for seven long years,
And well I love thee now!”
It was Sir Ragnar laid him down
Dead at the maiden’s feet;
She’s wrapped him in her bridal veil,
All for a winding-sheet.
Up and spake the shaven priest—
“Woe worth the paynim foul!
Ye may not lay him in holy ground,
Nor sing for his sinful soul.