“Fight on, fight on, my good men all,
On whom I bread bestow;
From fighting ye must not desist
Till Folker lyeth low.”
“Now hear thou, Sister Grimhild,
I am gored with many a wound;
Thou ne’er to me wert true or good,
And that I now have found.
“Now I’ve not closed an eye, an eye
For days and nights full seven;
I’ll avenge my murder certainly
Ere life from me is riven.
“Gone is my sword so trusty,
And my good steel spear’s in twain;
But all my care I would forget
Could I a weapon gain.”
Then answered him young Hubba Yern,
He stood by him so near:
“I’ll lend to thee the gallant sword,
My brother loved so dear.
“Methink thou art a hero bold,
And mighty strong beside;
And that maybe in verity
On thy fiddle bow espied.”
“Ah, thanks to thee, young Hubba Yern!
A true kemp thee I call;
I’ll serve thee faithful in return,
So shall my brothers all.”
Then hewed he, Folker Spillemand,
’Twas heard up to the sky;
He’d rather perish like a man
Than basely quit and fly.
* * * * *
London:
Printed for THOMAS J. WISE, Hampstead, N.W.
Edition limited to Thirty Copies.