Then back came he, laughing in horrible tone,
And the blood in their veins ran the colder,
When they saw that a fresh-slaughter’d mermaid was thrown
Athwart his proud barb’s dappled shoulder.
Said he, “I have chas’d her for seven score years,
As she landed to drink at the fountains.”
No more did he deign to their terrified ears,
But gallop’d away to the mountains.
THE MERMAN.
FROM THE OLD DANISH.
“Do thou, dear Mother, contrive amain
How Marsk Stig’s daughter I may gain.”
She made him, of water, a noble steed,
Whose trappings were form’d from rush and reed.
To a young knight chang’d she then her son;
To Mary’s church at full speed he’s gone.
His foaming horse to the gate he bound,
And pac’d the church full three times round:
When in he walk’d with his plume on high,
The dead men gave from their tombs a sigh:
The priest heard that, and he clos’d his book;
“Methinks yon knight has a strange wild look.”
Then laugh’d the maiden beneath her sleeve;
“If he were my husband I should not grieve.”