Marsk Stig he builds on Helm a keep,
With massive walls and towers high;
His raging foes besiege it close,
Germans and Danes, but vainly try.
Out into the field the peasant goes,
And there the peasant sows his corn:
“O God of might, what wondrous sight
The Helm, the Helm has got a horn!
“O welladay on the poor boors grey,
When Stig the Marshal’s bed was stain’d;
For us I ween it had better been
If Glepping had unborn remain’d.
“Whene’er within the good green wood
The oaks so mighty chance to fall,
They crush to the ground the hazels round,
And all the other trees so small.
“The sins of Kings and noblemen
Upon the poor fall heavily;
God look with grace on the peasant’s case,
And relieve him from his misery!”
* * * * *
London:
Printed for THOMAS J. WISE, Hampstead, N.W.
Edition limited to Thirty Copies.