O first he heard the matin song,
To hear nine masses stopped he then;
And now it lists young Danneved
To mount upon his steed again.
Out spake Oluf, the aged and good,
He was I ween the parish priest:
“I beg of thee, little Danneved,
To be this day my honoured guest.”
“This day I’ll break with no man bread,
Nor drink a drop of rosy wine,
Until I come to Borrebye,
And hold discourse with mother mine.”
“Now hear me, dearest Danneved,
Give o’er, I beg, thy purpose straight;
So many of thy enemies
Before the town in ambush wait.”
“O first I trust in my faulchion good,
And then I trust in my courser tall,
And next to them in my merry swains,
But in my own self most of all.”
“’Tis well to trust in thy faulchion good,
’Tis well to trust in thy courser tall,
But do not trust in thy merry swains,
For they’ll deceive thee first of all.”
It was little Danneved,
Abroad before the town he came;
And there met him his enemies,
Thrice nine in number were the same.
So numerous were these enemies,
For him that did in ambush lie,
All Danneved’s swains they took their leave,
And from their lord did basely fly.
All his merry men took their leave,
And from their master basely flew,
Except the young Swayne Trost alone,
He with his lord took on anew.
“O I, my Lord, your clothes have worn,
And ridden have I, my Lord, your steed,
And I will stand by you to-day,
Nor leave you in your greatest need.