It was the young Sir Marshal Stig,
He took his wife in his embrace;
“Now lieth slain the cursed bane
Of all our love and happiness.
“Now wilt thou brave stern poverty,
And follow bold a man exil’d?
Or wilt thou stay, and every day
Be harlot, Erik’s harlot, styl’d?”
“O could I even Queen become
The hated name I would not bear;
My thanks, the best of this poor breast,
For slaying him the ravisher.
“But we are allied to Counts and Knights,
And mighty men of high degree,
So do not fear the little heir,
Nor for a child the country flee.
“Count Jacob of Halland, and Peter Pors,
Bluefod and Kagg, at any hour
Will back our cause, and sturdy Claus,
The Halland’sfar, and many more.
“There’s Erik King of Norroway,
To him your knightly hand extend,
For he a host and fleet can boast,
And host and fleet he’ll gladly lend.
“If thou upon the peak of Helm
But build a castle strong and fast,
Thou need’st not quail for arrowy hail,
Nor dread the engine’s deadly cast.
“And now for long, long winters nine
I’ve hid my care within my breast;
A worm gnaws sore my bosom’s core,
Good night, my Lord! I sink to rest.”
Marsk Stig he took her in his arm,
“The high God lengthen yet thy day!
Our best advice is now to prize
The hoary rocks of Norroway.”
Marsk Stig he speeds, to Helm proceeds,
And soon inclos’d a fitting space;
I tell to ye for verity,
Before him palen’d many a face.