To the window went the Count,
Thence his eye the lances caught:
“Ha! Niels Ebbesen’s at hand,
Curse the hour I Denmark sought.”
Fierce with shields the doors they banged,
Burst the locks with frequent blow:
“Hairless Count! art thou within?
Hairless Count, we pledge thee now!”
“Set thee down, Niels Ebbesen,
We shall things accommodate;
Let us send to Henrik Count,
And Claus Krummedige straight.”
“Not so yesterday didst thou
Speak, Sir Count, by Randers strand;
Then thou saidst that I should hang,
Or should quit my native land.”
Up and spoke the Count’s footpage,
Kinsman he to Ebbesen:
“By his words if ye be fooled
Lost art thou and all thy men.”
Up and spoke the black young page,
Black because he was not white:
“Straight desist from useless talk,
Let, I rede, your faulchions bite.”
“I’ve no castles, Sir, which can
Such a prisoner long contain;
Now, ye men, spare not your swords!
Hew at him with might and main!”
So the tyrant Count they took,
Made him kneel upon the floor;
And his bald head off they hewed,
Hewed it off the bedstead o’er.
Soon as they the Count had slain,
Loud the drums the alarum beat;
It was Sir Niels Ebbesen
From the town would fain retreat.
From the town he hasted then,
Dared no longer there to stay;
Soon met him Sir Ove Hals,
And essayed to bar his way.