They extinguish’d straight the wax light great
That burn’d the head of the Monarch o’er;
Then round the King they stood in a ring,
With blades athirst for his dearest gore.
“O Ranild hear, my servant dear,
If thou wilt only fight for me,
My sister bright to thee I’ll plight,
And she thy wedded wife shall be.”
Then he hew’d for his Lord on the broad, broad board,
And on the balk he hew’d so brave;
He hew’d hither, and he hew’d thither—
He fought for his master like a knave.
Full in the breast their stabs they address’d,
As near to the heart as well might be;
With wounds so sore, forty and more,
Miserably murder’d the King was he.
At him they bored with spear and sword,
No rest to him the Monks allow’d;
When done was the deed each took his steed,
And away with frantic fury rode.
This happ’d on the night of Cecily bright,
The season it was so bright and holy.
The King is dead, his blood is shed,
But Ingeborg still is melancholy.
“Now who will bear to Viborg fair
The corpse of the King across the green?
And who will go with the tale of woe
To Skanderborough where sits the Queen?”
Then ride would none to Viborg town,
And attend the corse across the green;
But rose up amain a little swain,
And he would ride to the Danish Queen.
Uprose amain the little swain,
And not long idle I ween he stay’d;
He tore from the grey the saddle away,
And that on the back of the white he laid.
“Hail gracious Queen so fair of mien,
Who sittest clad in scarlet red;
A traitorous train the King have slain,
In Tinderup barn he lieth dead.