It was the Danish Queen so fine,
She look’d from out the window high:
“O there doth ride Marsk Stig,” she cried,
“With his knight in iron panoply.
“Ha, welcome, Stig, thou self-made King,
May’st quickly meet the guerdon due;
If God doth spare the youthful heir,
Full bitter fruit he’ll make thee chew.”
“Lady, I am no self-made King,
Although it please thee so to say;
But I can name the knight of fame
Who last with thee, fair lady, lay.
“Little thou mind’st King Erik’s death,
But briny tears thou soon wouldst shed,
If thou hadst lost the gallant Drost,
Who’s wont at night to share thy bed.”
“O shame upon the murderers foul
Who basely slew my lord and joy;
And shame befall both thee and all
My Queenly honour would destroy.”
Then up spoke Erik Erikson,
The little King who was standing by:
“When I’m up-grown and bear the crown
Full quickly thou shalt Denmark fly.”
Then up stood little Christopher,
And courage sparkled in his eye:
“To hang them all were vengeance small
For my dear father’s injury.”
“And if the land I’m forc’d to quit,
And upon the chilly billows lie,
I’ll work revenge and havoc strange,
And mostly ’mong the great and high.
“And if from hence I’m forc’d to go,
And outlaw’d live in cave and wood,
From Denmark’s land with spear and brand
Summer and Yule I’ll fetch me food.”
Then away from Skanderborg he rode,
And his fist he shook against the towers;
And with his troop to Molderup,
To seek his Ingeborg, he scours.