’Gainst numerous foes we fought one day
A fight so fierce and gory,
And next the foe Sir Hvidfeld lay,
To danger close and glory;
And there was no man fought so stout
As Hvidfeld fought, that bloody bout.
Our native land has ever teem’d
With warriors gallant-hearted.
But as Sir Hvidfeld broadsides loud
Lay taking and returning,
His own fire set his vessel proud,
His Dannebrog, a burning.
“Slip anchor, Sir,” his sailors cry,
“To land for safety let us fly!”
Our native land has ever teem’d
With warriors gallant-hearted.
“No!” answer’d he, “for danger then
’Midst Denmark’s fleet we carry;
Shall it be risk’d by Danish men,
That they alive may tarry?
We’ll die, but we’ll avenge our death;
We’ll fight until our latest breath.”
Our native land has ever teem’d
With warriors gallant hearted.
“Yes, to the latest breath we’ll fight!”
His seamen answer’d, cheering;
Around was death in horrors dight,
But still they fought unfearing,
Till the fire reach’d the powder-store,
And all died heroes midst its roar.
Our native land has ever teem’d
With warriors gallant-hearted.
And Hvidfeld’s fame shall ne’er decay,
His gallant seamens’ never;
A worthy countryman shall they
In every Dane find ever;
When Denmark dear to us shall cry,
Like them will we grim death defy.
Our native ground shall still abound
With warriors gallant-hearted.
BIRTING.
A Fragment.
From the Ancient Danish.
It was late at evening tide,
Sinks the day-star in the wave,
When alone Orm Ungarswayne
Rode to seek his father’s grave.
Late it was at evening hour,
When the steeds to streams are led;
Let me now, said Orm the young,
Wake my father from the dead.
It was bold Orm Ungarswayne
Stamp’d the hill with mighty foot:
Riv’n were wall and marble-stone,
Shook the mountain to its root.