{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_28985/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_28985","id":"gutenberg_28985","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/28985","summary":null,"tags":["Ballads","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Poetry"],"text":"Transcribed from the 1914 Thomas J. Wise pamphlet by David Price, email\nccx074@pglaf.org\n\n\n\n\n\n                           TORD OF HAFSBOROUGH\n                            AND OTHER BALLADS\n\n\n                                    BY\n                              GEORGE BORROW\n\n                                 LONDON:\n                     PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION\n\n                                   1914\n\n               _Copyright in the United States of America_\n          _by Houghton_, _Mifflin and Co. for Clement Shorter_.\n\n\n\n\nTORD OF HAFSBOROUGH\n\n\nIt was Tord of Hafsborough,\n   O'er the verdant wold would ride,\nAnd there he lost his hammer of gold,\n   'Twas lost for so long a tide.\n\nIt was Tord of Hafsborough,\n   His brother he addressed:\n\"Thou shalt away to the Norland hills,\n   My hammer be thy quest.\"\n\nIt was Lokke Leyemand,\n   A feather robe o'er him drew;\nAnd away to the Norland mountains high\n   O'er the briny sea he flew.\n\nIn the midst of the castle yard\n   He smoothed his array;\nThen straight he took to the castle hall,\n   To the carlish Count his way.\n\n\"Be welcome, Lokke Leyemand,\n   Be welcome my castle to;\nSay! how fare things in Hafsborough?\n   With the land how does it go?\"\n\n\"O, well fare things in Hafsborough,\n   And well in the country all;\nTord has his golden hammer lost,\n   Therefore seek I your hall.\"\n\n\"Tord he shall not his hammer get,\n   Thou back may'st carry him word;\nFull five-and-ninety fathoms deep\n   It lies in the earth interred.\n\n\"Tord he shall not his hammer get,\n   To thee I vow and swear,\nSave he give me Damsel Fridleifsborg,\n   With all his goods and gear.\"\n\nIt was Lokke Leyemand,\n   O'er himself the feather robe drew;\nAnd with his answer back amain\n   O'er the briny sea he flew.\n\n\"Thou never wilt get thy hammer of gold,\n   Upon that thou may'st rely,\nUnless he have Damsel Fridleifsborg,\n   And all our property.\"\n\nThen answered straight the proud Damsel,\n   Upon the bench as she sate:\n\"Ye'd better give me a Christian man,\n   Than the laidly trold for mate.\n\n\"But we will take our old father,\n   And deck so fine his head,\nAnd we'll carry him to the Northern hills,\n   To stand for bride in my stead.\"\n\nAnd now to the house of the merry bridegroom\n   They the young old bride convey;\nUpon her dress no gold was spared,\n   For a verity I say.\n\nAnd so they took the lovely bride,\n   On the bride-bench placed her frame;\nAnd to skink before the bride himself\n   The carlish Count he came.\n\nThen she ate six oxen bodies,\n   And three fat swine beside;\nLoaves seven hundred were her meal,\n   Ere for a draught she cried.\n\nBefore her thirst she could assuage\n   She drank ten casks of ale;\nShe set the can once more to her mouth\n   And to hickuping then she fell.\n\nThe carlish Count strode up and down,\n   And wrung his hands so sore:\n\"O whence can this young bride be come?\n   She does so much devour!\"\n\nThe Count he called to his Botelere:\n   \"Thou hadst better broach away,\nFor we have here such a wondrous bride,\n   She'll drink for ever and aye.\"\n\nAnswered then Lokke Leyemand,\n   'Neath his sleeve he laughed with glee:\n\"For full eight days she has not ate.\n   She longed so much for thee.\"\n\nOutspake the laidly carlish Count,\n   And thus the Count did cry:\n\"O, call ye in my serving swains,\n   Bid them come instantly.\n\n\"Go, fetch me hither the hammer of gold,\n   Glad I'll surrender it;\nIf I can either in honour or shame,\n   Of such a young bride be quit.\"\n\nThe Kempions eight in number were,\n   Who the hammer brought on a tree;\nThey laid it down so courteously\n   Across the young bride's knee.\n\nIt was then the youthful bride\n   Took up the hammer big;\nI tell to ye for a verity\n   She swung it like a twig.\n\nFirst she slew the carlish count,\n   That throld both laid and tall;\nAnd then as they strove to 'scape through the door,\n   She slew the little trolds all.\n\nThe guests and the Norland men each one\n   So downcast were of mood;\nBlows from the hand of the bride they got\n   That robbed their cheeks of blood.\n\nIt was Lokke Leyemand,\n   He opened his mouth in game:\n\"Now we will fare to our country home,\n   And our sire a widow proclaim.\"\n\n\n\n\nFROM THE ARABIC\n\n\nO thou who fain would'st wisdom gain,\n   Live night and day untired;\nFor by repeated toil and pain\n   It is alone acquired.\n\n\n\n\nTHORVALD\n_Svend Tveskjeg havde sig en Maud_\n\n\n   Swayne Tveskieg did a man possess,\n      Sir Thorvald hight;\n   Though fierce in war, kind acts in peace\n      Were his delight.\n   From port to port his vessels fast\n      Sailed wide around,\n   And made, where'er they anchor cast,\n      His name renown'd.\n_But Thorvald has freed his King_.\n\n   Prisoners he bought--clothes, liberty,\n      On them bestowed,\n   And sent men home from slavery\n      To their abode.\n   And many an old man got his boy,\n      His age's stay;\n   And many a maid her youth's sole joy,\n      Her lover gay.\n_But Thorvald has freed his King_.\n\n   A brave fight Thorvald loved full dear,\n      For brave his mood;\n   But never did he dip his spear\n      In feeble blood.\n   He followed Swayne to many a fray\n      With war-shield bright,\n   And his mere presence scar'd away\n      Foul deeds of might.\n_But Thorvald has freed his King_.\n\n   They hoist sail on the lofty mast,\n      It was King Swayne,\n   He o'er the bluey billows pass'd\n      With armed train.\n   His mind to harry Bretland {13a} boiled;\n      He leapt on shore\n   And every, every thing recoiled\n      His might before.\n_But Thorvald has freed his King_.\n\n   Yet slept not Bretland's chieftain good;\n      He speedily\n   Collected a host in the dark wood\n      Of cavalry.\n   And evil through that subtle plan\n      Befell the Dane;\n   They were ta'en prisoners every man,\n      And last King Swayne.\n_But Thorvald has freed his King_.\n\n   \"Now hear thou prison-foogd! {13b} and pray\n      My message heed;\n   Unto the castle take thy way,\n      Thence Thorvald lead!\n   Prison and chains become him not,\n      Whose gallant hand\n   So many a handsome lad has brought\n      From slavery's band.\"\n_But Thorvald has freed his King_.\n\n   The man brought this intelligence\n      To the bower's door,\n   But Thorvald, with loud vehemence,\n      \"I'll not go,\" swore.\n   \"What--go, and leave my sovereign here,\n      In durance sore?\n   No! Thorvald then ne'er worthy were\n      To lift shield more.\"\n_But Thorvald has freed his King_.\n\n   What cannot noble souls effect?\n      Both freedom gain\n   Through Thorvald's prayer, and the respect\n      His deeds obtain.\n   And from that hour unto his grave,\n      Swayne ever show'd\n   Towards his youth's friend, so true and brave,\n      Fit gratitude.\n_But Thorvald has freed his King_.\n\n   Swayne Tveskieg sat with kings one tide,\n      O'er mead and beer,\n   The cushion soft he stroaked and cried,\n      \"Sit, Thorvald, here.\n   Thy father ne'er rul'd land like me\n      And my compeers!\n   But yarl and nobleman is he\n      Whose fame thine nears.\n_For Thorvald has freed his King_.\"\n\n\n\n\nPETER COLBIORNSEN\n\n\n   'Fore Fredereksteen King Carl he lay\n      With mighty host;\n   But Frederekshal from day to day,\n      Much trouble cost.\n   To seize the sword each citizen\n      His tools let fall,\n   And valiant Peter Colbiornsen\n      Was first of all.\n_Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen_.\n\n   'Gainst Frederekshal so fierce and grim\n      Turned Carl his might,\n   The citizens encountered him\n      In numbers slight,\n   But ah, they fought like Northern men,\n      For much loved land,\n   And it was Peter Colbiornsen\n      That led the band.\n_Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen_.\n\n   Such heavy blows the Norsemen deal\n      Amid the foe,\n   Like ripe corn 'fore the reaper's steel\n      The Swedes sink low.\n   But sturdiest reaper weary will,\n      So happ'd it here;\n   Though many the Norwegians kill,\n      More, more appear.\n_Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen_.\n\n   Before superior force they flew,\n      As Norsemen fly,\n   They but retired, the fight anew\n      Unawed to ply.\n   Now o'er the bodies of his slain\n      His way Carl makes;\n   He thinks he has the city ta'en,\n      But he mistakes.\n_Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen_.\n\n   A speedy death his soldiers found\n      Where'er they came;\n   For Norse were posted all around,\n      And greeted them;\n   Then Carl he sent, but sorely vext,\n      To Fredereksteen,\n   And begg'd that he might bury next\n      His slaughtered men.\n_Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen_.\n\n   \"No time, no time to squander e'er\n      Have Norsemen bold,\n   He came self-bidden 'mongst us here,\"\n      Thus Carl was told;\n   \"If we can drive him back agen,\n      We now must try!\"\n   And it was Peter Colbiornsen\n      Made that reply.\n_Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen_.\n\n   Lo! from the town the flames outburst,\n      High-minded men!\n   And he who fired his house the first\n      Was Colbiornsen.\n   Eager to quench the fire, the foes\n      Make quick resort,\n   But bullets fell as fast as snows\n      Down from the fort.\n_Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen_.\n\n   Now rose the blazes toward the sky,\n      Red, terrible,\n   His heroes' death the King thereby\n      Could see right well.\n   Sir Peter's word he then made good,\n      His host retires;\n   But in his path the steen it stood,\n      And on him fires.\n_Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen_.\n\n   Magnificent 'midst corse and blood\n      Glowed Frederekshal;\n   Illum'd its own men's courage proud,\n      And Swedesmen's fall.\n   Whoe'er saw pile funereal flame\n      So bright as then?\n   Sure never shall expire thy name,\n      O Colbiornsen!\n_Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen_.\n\n\n\n\nKRAGELILL\n\n\n'Twas noised about, 'twas noised about,\n   Full far 'twas noised I ween;\nKing Sigurd has his daughter lost,\n   She stolen from him has been.\n\nIt was gallant King Sigurd then\n   His bonnet he put on;\nAnd he away to the high, high hall\n   To his courtmen and knights is gone.\n\nThey cast the die upon the board,\n   The die it rolled around;\nIt fell upon Regnfred, the King's son,\n   He to seek the maid is bound.\n\nAbout the world for one winter,\n   And for winters five he sought;\nBut he in all that weary tide\n   Could hear of the maiden nought.\n\nIt was Regnfred, the King's son,\n   Through the green wood rode his way;\nAnd there met him a little stranger lad,\n   About the break of day.\n\n\"Now do thou hear, thou stranger lad,\n   All that I say to thee;\nThe very next maid that thou know'st of\n   Do thou shew unto me.\"\n\n\"And do thou hear, thou fair young swain\n   I pray I may not offend,\nBut the very next maid that I know of\n   Sir Tabor's goats doth tend.\n\n\"Her kirtle is of kid-skin made,\n   Her mantle of wadmal grey,\nHer locks, which shine like gleamy gold,\n   Adown her shoulders stray.\"\n\nThen he rode o'er the meadows green,\n   And through the brake and thorn,\nAnd there did he the maiden find,\n   She drove her goats from the corn.\n\nHe took her tenderly in his arm,\n   Kissed her on her cheek so fair:\n\"I entreat thee now by the highest God,\n   Thy father to me declare.\"\n\n\"An ancient man my father is,\n   Tends goats in the morass;\nKragelill I myself am called,\n   Can I boast of my birth, alas!\"\n\nIt was Regnfred, the King's son,\n   In haste drew out his knife:\n\"Thou shalt to me thy father name,\n   Or thou shall lose thy life.\"\n\n\"Sigurd the King my father is,\n   His Queen my mother dear;\nAnd I myself am Swanelill,\n   Name fitting for me to bear.\"\n\nThen o'er her threw the mantle blue\n   Regnfred, the King's good son;\nHe lifted her so courteously\n   His courser grey upon.\n\nAnd he rode o'er the meadows green,\n   And over the plains so wide;\nBehind him came running an ancient man,\n   And so loud on Kragelill cried.\n\nBut the swain gave him both silver and gold,\n   Contented away he hied;\nThen he unhindered did carry the maid\n   To her father's halls of pride.\n\nNow has Regnfred, the King's son,\n   O'ercome his dire distress;\nHe sleeps each night so joyously\n   In the arms of his princess.\n\nAnd now is Damsel Swanelill\n   To kith and kin restored;\nSo joyously she sleeps each night\n   With Regnfred her wedded lord.\n\n\n\n\nALLEGAST\n\n\nThe Count such a store of gold had got,\nHis equal for wealth in the land was not.\n\nBut the Count he had of a hare the heart,\nAt the slightest thing he with fear would start.\n\nYet at last he grew of courage so rife,\nThat he wooed the King's daughter to be his wife.\n\nThen answer made Carl, the son of the King:\nI ne'er will consent to such shameful thing.\n\n\"For he served my father like a knave,\nHe'll not bear on his helm the stroke of a glaive.\n\n\"Last year the King's coursers he helped to groom,\nThis year he'll to wed the King's daughter presume.\"\n\nNought booted all Carl, the King's son, could say;\n'Gainst the wish of her brother they gave her away.\n\nDreamt Carl, the King's son, on his night-couch laid,\nThat he would take up the thieving trade.\n\n\"May the Lord God grant I the man may find,\nWho best can steal of the thieving kind.\n\n\"God grant that I in with Allegast fall,\nWho best can steal of the world's thieves all.\"\n\nEarly at morn the day shone clear,\nFrom the house Carl, the King's son, rode in career.\n\nAnd when to the castle gate he had won,\nThere Allegast stood, and leaned thereupon.\n\n\"What kind of man, my friend, may you be,\nWhom loitering here by the gate I see?\"\n\n\"The folks, young Sir, me Allegast call,\nI am the best thief of the world's thieves all.\"\n\n\"Then we'll to each other a solemn oath give,\nTo steal and to thieve all the days that we live.\n\n\"Now we will away to the house of the Count,\nAnd the courser we'll steal which to ride he is wont.\"\n\nAnd when they arrived on the verdant plain,\nInto hot dispute fell the comrades twain.\n\nThey disputed which should break the wall,\nThey disputed which therethrough should crawl.\n\nBut Allegast he should break down the wall,\nAnd Allegast he should creep through withall.\n\n\"But how shall we bear the Count's saddle away?\nSo many bells that saddle array.\"\n\nThe Count to his page that evening said:\n\"My saddle wipe, ere thou get thee to bed.\n\n\"For to-morrow I'm bent to ride to the Ting,\nI'll have Carl hanged, the son of the King.\"\n\nThen the Countess in bitter grief answer made:\n\"You'll ne'er live so long as to see him dead.\n\n\"My father's servant last year thou wast,\nNow to sleep with his daughter the honour thou hast.\"\n\nThe Count at that word so ireful grew,\nHe smote his wife that the blood out-flew.\n\nAt hand was Sir Carl, heard all they spake:\n\"I soon of this matter an end will make.\"\n\nThen Carl he entered through the door,\nAnd a naked sword in his hand he bore.\n\n\"Thou dog, thou shalt never more have the might\nThe gentle daughters of Kings to smite.\n\n\"Thou dog, thou shalt never more have the power\nTo threaten Kings' children within thy bower.\"\n\nThe Count by his long yellow locks he took,\nAnd by the bed's side his head off strook.\n\n\"Do thou lie there, and for ever be banned,\nI'll bestow on another my sister's hand.\n\n\"I'll give her Sir Allegast, he is a knight\nSo true and trusty and valiant in fight.\"\n\nThe King's sweet daughter has Allegast wed,\nFor her infamous husband unwept lies dead.\n\nThese gallants were thieves in no other way,\nThan that they a trick on the Count would play.\n\nBut could all thieving come to so fair an end,\nThere's many, I trow, would a-thieving wend!\n\n\n\n\nEPIGRAMS\n\n\n1\n\n\nAssume a friend's face when a foeman you spy,\nFor his hatred you'll turn into friendship thereby.\nDeal gentle words round you when threats are outpoured,\nFor not against silk do we use the sharp sword.\nBy means of caresses and promises fair,\nThe elephant fierce you may guide with a hair.\n\n\n\n2\n\n\nThe lion in woods finds prey of noble kind,\n   In fields of air the hawk sufficient meat;\nHe who would hunt within a house confined,\n   Must needs possess the spider's hands and feet.\n\n\n\n3\n\n\nThough God provides our daily bread\n   Yet all must seek that bread, I ween;\nThough all must die, there is no need\n   To rush the dragon's jaws between.\n\n\n\n4\n\n\nTo trust a man I never feel inclined,\nUnless I know his very inmost mind;\nBetter an open foe your flesh should rend,\nThan you should deem a secret foe your friend.\n\n\n\n5\n\n\nA hunter who was always seeking game\nIn evil hour upon a tiger came;\nChance to the hunter is not always kind,\nInstead of game he may a tiger find.\n\n\n\n6\n\n\nThe plans of men of shrewdest wit\n   To fail are known,\nWhilst beardless lads the mark will hit\n   By chance alone.\n\n\n\n7\n\n\nWell was it said, long years ago,\nNever trust him whom you've given a blow;\nTrust not the heart you have caused to ache,\nFor thine, if it can, it will surely break.\nFling not a stone at the wall of a town,\nLest one from the rampart should strike you down.\n\n\n\n8\n\n\nWho roams the world by many wants beset,\nIs quickly glad his own name to forget;\nUnless you've gold you cannot do much harm,\nAnd if you've gold you need no other arm.\nGold if you lack you cannot cross the brine;\nBetter than ten men's strength is one man's coin.\n\n\n\n\nON A YOUNG MAN WITH RED HAIR\n\n\nHe is a lad of sober mind,\nBy no means martially inclined;\nNor fit to bear war's dreadful shocks,\nAlthough he carries fire-locks.\n\n                                * * * * *\n\n                                 LONDON:\n               Printed for THOMAS J. WISE, Hampstead, N.W.\n\n                   _Edition limited to Thirty Copies_.\n\n\n\n\nFootnotes:\n\n\n{13a}  Britain.\n\n{13b}  Prison-foogd, the governor of the prison, Dan fogd.","title":"Tord of Hafsborough, and Other Ballads","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":2924}