ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN (1841 - 1901)

{Ballad Stories of the Affections. From the Scandinavian 1866}

                                                                                                                                                                   32

EBBE SKAMMELSON.

SIR SKAMMEL dwelt far north in Thy,
     And wealthy lands did own;
Sir Skammel had five bonnie sons,
     And two were men full-grown.
Alone in the wild wood wanders Ebbe Skammelson!

The one was Ebbe Skammelson,
     The other Peter the young,
And sadder, darker fate than theirs
     Was never told nor sung.

Ebbe he saddled his charger gray,
     And galloped through greenwood glade,
And there with witching words he wooed
     The proud May Adelaide.

He wooed the proud May Adelaide,
     And like a lily was she;
He bare her to his mother's house,
     And hied to a far countree.

But Ebbe stept to the high chamber                                                     33
     Ere yet he hied away:
‘While in the Court o’ the King I serve,
     Think of me night and day.

‘Think of me, Adelaide, my May,
     And of the love I give,
While in the Court o’ the King I gain
     Red gold whereon to live.’

And Ebbe in the Court o’ the King
     Won gold and fame beside;
At home Sir Peter, his young brothèr,
     Thought of the bonnie bride.

And Ebbe in the Court o’ the King
     Gathered the red gold fast;
Peter, his brother, built a ship,
     And cut a tree for mast.

Peter, his brother, built a boat,
     And launched it on the tide,
And sailed away to North Jutlànd
     To Ebbe Skammelson’s bride.

It was young Peter Skammelson
     Donned clothes of silk and fur,
And stept before sweet Adelaide
     All in the high chambèr.

‘Hail unto thee, fair Adelaide!                                                            34
     Come plight thy troth to me,
And all the days that I may live
     I’ll love and honour thee.’

‘How should I plight my troth to thee,
     How should I wed thee now,
When I to Ebbe Skammelson
     Have given my true-love vow?

‘I sware to wait for eight long years
     To all my kith and clan,—
The King himself forbade me eke
     To wed another man.’

Then answered Peter Skammelson,
     ‘Ebbe roams far and free,
He serves in the Court o’ the King, and makes
     Thy name a mockerie.’

Outspake young Peter’s old mother
     A treasonous word, I wot,—
‘Ay, marry Peter Skammelson,
     For Ebbe hath forgot.

‘Ebbe serves in the Court o’ the King,
     And doth thy true love wrong;
A maid there is of the Queen’s chamber
     Whom he hath courted long.

‘Far better marry Peter, my son,
     With his red towers by the sea,
Than wait and pine for one who loves
     Another more than thee.’

‘Hearken, young Peter Skammelson,—                                             36
     Go seek another wife;
I will not wed another man
     While Ebbe, thy brother, hath life.’

It was Sir Peter’s old mothèr
     Full cruellie she cried,
‘Then hear the truth, May Adelaide,—
     Last hairst my Ebbe died!’

Up stood the bonnie Adelaide,
     Slight as a lily wand;
She gave to Peter Skammelson
     Her troth and white, white hand.

So gaily for the marriage feast
     They brewed the mead so clear;
And Ebbe in the Court o’ the King
     Did nought behold nor hear.

They brewed the wine and white, white mead,
     And two months passed away,
And then young Peter Skammelson
     Beheld his wedding-day.

It was young Ebbe Skammelson
     Woke up and cried in fright,
For he had dreamed a dreadful dream,
     All in the dead of night.

It was young Ebbe Skammelson                                                         37
     Woke up at night and cried,
And spake about his dreadful dream
     To a comrade by his side.

‘Methought that all my stone chamber
     Stood in a fiery glow,
And therein burst my young brother
     And Adelaide alsò.’

‘In sooth? then, Ebbe Skammelson,
     Some scath is near at hand,
For when one dreams of flaming fire
     It bodes a naked brand.

‘But if in dreams thy stone chamber
     All fiery seemed to be,
It bodeth Peter, thy young brothèr,
     Is wooing thy ladie.’

It was Sir Ebbe Skammelson
     Fastened his sword to his side,
And, seeking out the King, gained leave
     To fatherland to ride.

It was Sir Ebbe Skammelson
     All eagerly homeward flew,
And what had been a seven days’ ride
     Sir Ebbe rode in two.

It was Sir Ebbe Skammelson                                                             38
     Rode swift upon his way,
And came unto his father’s gate
     Upon the bridal day.

Up to his father’s castle red
     Rode Ebbe Skammelson,
And at the porch stood a little page,
     And, whistling, leant thereon.

‘Hearken, hearken, thou little page,
     And truly answer me:
Why is the place so blithe? and why
     This merry companie?’

‘Here gather the ladies o’ the North,
     Wha by the fjord abide,
And theirs are a’ the chariots red
     Ye see on ilka side.

‘Braw hae they decked thy brither’s bride,
     And they are blithe and gay;
The bonnie Lady Adelaide
     Thy brither weds the day!’

Out came Ebbe’s sisters twain,
     With golden cups in hand:
‘Dear brother Ebbe Skammelson,
     Welcome to fatherland!’

And it was Ebbe’s sisters twain                                                          39
     That kindly welcomed him;
Father and mother welcomed him not;
     The companie looked grim.

A bright gold bracelet unto each
     Gave Ebbe tenderlie,
And each gold bracelet he had earned
     To pleasure his ladie.

One sadly bade him tarry there,
     The other bade him go:
‘If here thou tarriest to-night,
     ’Twill surely bring us woe.’

His father and mother asked him in
     To sit at the festal board;
Pale went Ebbe Skammelson,
     And did not say a word.

He turned his horse around about,
     And sought to gallop away;
His mother held the horse’s rein,
     And begged Sir Ebbe to stay.

She led him to a cushioned stool,
     And bade him sit and dine;
Then all the words that Ebbe said
     Were, ‘I will pour ye wine!’

He poured the wine for the bonnie bride,                                           40
     Clad all in pearls and gold,
And every time he looked at her
     His flesh and blood felt cold.

It was Sir Ebbe Skammelson
     Drank deep of the wine so red,
And last he craved his father’s leave
     To hie away to bed.

Late in the quiet gloaming hour,
     When the dew began to fall,
The bonnie Lady Adelaide
     Walked from the banquet-hall.

They followed her unto her bower,
     Her bridal maidens fair,
And up came Ebbe Skammelson,
     And the bridal torch would bear.

It was Sir Ebbe Skammelson
     Paused on the balconie:
‘Dost thou remember, Adelaide,
     The troth-plight sworn to me?’

‘All the love-troth I gave to thee,
     To Peter, thy brother, I give,
And I will be a mother to thee
     For all the days I live.’

‘I sought not thee my mother to be,                                                    41
     I sought thee for my wife;
Therefore shall Peter Skammelson
     Yield up his wicked life.

‘Yet hearken, hearken, Adelaide,—
     Wilt take me by the hand?
I will my traitor brother slay,
     And bear thee from the land.’

‘And if thou didst thy brother slay,
     How should that win my love?
Nay! I should grieve myself to death,
     As doth the turtle-dove.’

It was Sir Ebbe Skammelson
     Spake not nor uttered sound,
Only he grew as white as snow,
     And stamped upon the ground.

He followed her unto her bower,
     And never a word he spoke;
But Ebbe Skammelson he had
     A sword beneath his cloak.

In at the door Sir Ebbe stept,
     His drawn sword at his side,
And there beside the bridal bed
     He slew the bonnie bride!

With glittering sword he cut her down,                                               42
     While by her bed she stood;
It was her bonnie crown of gold
     Lay swimming in her blood.

And underneath his cloak he hid
     His sharp sword, dripping red.
And hied unto the banquet-hall,
     And to the bridegroom said,

‘Hearken, O Peter Skammelson,—
     It is the midnight hour;
Thy bonnie bride awaiteth thee
     All in the bridal bower.’

It was young Peter Skammelson
     Went pale to hear and see;
For all men saw that Ebbe’s heart
     Was wroth as wroth could be.

‘Hearken, O Ebbe Skammelson,
     All-dearest brother mine!
I seek no more May Adelaide,
     And freely make her thine.

‘Hearken, O Ebbe Skammelson,
     And lay thy wroth aside,—
I swear I hold the bridal nought,
     And freely yield the bride.’

‘Stand up, thou Peter Skammelson,
     Hie to thy bridal bed;
How bonnie look the bed and bower
     Bestrewn with roses red!”

It was Sir Ebbe Skammelson                                                             44
     Sprang over the banquet board,
And clove young Peter to the brain
     With his sharp and bloody sword.

Woe, woe, there was in hall and bower,
     And mickle terror and pain;
Bridegroom and bride are lying dead,
     By fierce Sir Ebbe slain.

His father had a grievous wound,
     His mother lost a hand,
Therefore rides Ebbe Skammelson
     Exiled from fatherland.

His brother Peter Skammelson
     And Adelaide lay dead,
Wherefore Sir Ebbe wanders wide,
     Begging his daily bread.

From such a bloody bridal day
     God shelter young and old:
The wine is bitter, the mead is sour
     Whenever the tale is told.
Alone in the wild wood wanders Ebbe Skammelson!

                                                                                                         45

MAID METTELIL.

I.

SIR PETER and Sir Oluf at table sit;
Under the linden!
They drink their red wine with words of wit.
Under the linden wakens my dearest!

‘O hearken, Sir Oluf, boon comrade mine:
Why pledge not thy troth to some maiden fine?’

‘And wherefore marry a housewife cold
When I have my magical horn of gold?

‘Whenever upon my horn I play
I can gain as many maids as I may;

‘Whenever upon my horn I play
There is never a maiden can say me nay.’

‘I know a maiden in this countree
Who never would answer ‘ay’ to thee.

‘I stake my horse—’tis a goodly steed—
With Mette, my bride, thou canst never succeed.’

‘I stake my necklace of pearls of price,                                               46
I’d win her though she were made of ice.’

II.

Late in the eve, in the gloaming shade,
Sir Oluf began to lure the maid.

Deftly he blew in his horn of gold:
Maid Mettelil heard him across the wold.

Long listens Maid Mettelil eagerly:
‘Who playeth so sweetly to summon me?’

Up and down swell her breasts of snow:
‘Dare I thither by moonlight go?

‘If I thither by moonlight go,
Never one of my maids must know.’

III.

Maid Mettelil, and her hound so small,
Through the rose grove creep with light footfall.

Maid Mettelil, in a mantle blue,
Unto the bower of Sir Oluf flew.

She knocks at the door with her white, white hand—
‘Open, Sir Oluf, for here I stand!’

‘None have I summoned unto my bower;
None shall enter at gloaming hour.’

‘Open the door, Sir Oluf, to me—                                                     48
Heart-sick am I with thy minstrelsie.’

‘Heart-sick art thou with my minstrelsie?
Nathless, you come not by night to me.

‘Gladly would I welcome thee here,
Were not Sir Peter my comrade dear.

‘And if I am grown so dear to thee,
Still dearer thy husband is to me.’

‘Rise up, Sir Oluf, and open the door—
On my forehead of white the damp dews pour.’

“’And fall the dews on thy forehead fair?
Hie thee homeward, and rest thee there.’

‘And if thou wilt not open the door,
Let thy servant follow me, I implore.’

‘The moon is clear and the white stars burn—
Alone thou hast come, and canst return.

‘The moon shines clearly overhead,
And will light thee safely to thy bed.’

IV.

Maid Mettelil, and her hound so small,
Are running homeward with light footfall.

To the castle gate they come full soon;                                                49
Sir Peter stands in the light of the moon.

‘Welcome, Maid Mettelil, my bride!
Where hast wandered at midnight tide?’

‘Out in the greenwood grove, I ween,
Plucking the blossoms, the blue and the green;

‘Plucking the blossoms, the red and white,
That look so bonnie by pale moonlight.

‘Yonder have I been wandering,
Hearing the nightingale sweetly sing.’

‘No nightingale hast thou heard to-night,
But only Sir Oluf’s horn so bright.

‘Hearken, O Mettelil, unto me:
Thou hast made thy couch ’neath the linden tree.

‘Now have I lost my steed, I ween,
Since thou so shameless a bride hast been.’

V.

And no man knew she had been so light,
But her bower was burnt to the ground that night.

Sir Peter wanders so gloomy and grim;
Sir Oluf feareth to meet with him!

                                                                                                       50

VI.

May this to the young a lesson prove,—
Under the linden!
Tempt not and try not the wives ye love.
Under the linden wakens my dearest!

THE OWL.

THERE dwelt by my chamber window
     An owl among ivy leaves;
He spoilt with his dismal music
     The sweetest of summer eves.

The other birds were silent
     At the nightingale’s twilight tune;
But the owl awakened, crying
     And rolling his eyes at the moon.

‘Curst be the owl!’ I muttered,
     Nursing my wrath for long,
‘He breaks my slumber nightly,
     And drowns the nightingale’s song!’

It was my trusty huntsman                                                        51
     Went out at night with his gun,
And shot the owl at my window,
     Just as his song begun.

It was my trusty huntsman
     Hung the owl on a forest tree,
To frighten away from my window
     All neighbours as hoarse as he.

But now the summer is over
     And the stork has winged away,
Gone are the many voices
     That rendered the greenwood gay.

Among the leafless branches
     Low winds of the autumn creep,—
They weary me many a gloaming,
     And trouble my thoughts from sleep.

I think of the old owl often,
     When the nights are lonely and long
And I wish the owl were living,
     And let me list to his song.

                                                                                               52

THE ELF DANCE.

SIR OLUF, the knight, full wide hath rid,
The guests to his wedding feast to bid.
But all in the moonlight the elves dance featly!

Lightly the elfin companie
Is dancing under the greenwood tree.

There dances four, there dances five—
How in their midst shall Sir Oluf thrive?

The Elf King’s daughter is featest of all:
She grips his rein with her fingers small.

‘Welcome, Herr Oluf! welcome to thee!
Hither, and tread in the dance with me.’

‘I dare not dance, and I must away,
For to-morrow is my bridal-day.’

‘Listen, Herr Oluf: dance with me—
Buck-skin boots will I give to thee!’

‘I dare not dance, and I must away,
For to-morrow is my bridal-day.’

‘Listen, Herr Oluf, listen to me—                                                        54
A silken sark will I give to thee!

‘A silken sark, so white and fine,
My mother wove it by pale moonshine.’

‘I dare not dance, and I must away,
For to-morrow is my bridal-day.’

‘Listen Herr Oluf: dance with me—
A helmet of gold I will give to thee.’

‘A helmet of gold were fine to see;
But I dare not tread in the dance with thee.’

‘And wilt thou not tread in the dance with me?
Sickness and blight shall thy portion be!’

His shoulders she strikes with her fingers white:
Ne’er hath he felt a blow so light.

She lifts Sir Oluf upon his steed:
‘Now off and away to thy lady speed!’

Sir Oluf rides—he rides in fear:
At the gate is waiting his mother dear.

‘Listen, Herr Oluf, my own bonnie knight:
Why are thy cheeks so ghastly white?’

‘Well may my cheeks be ghastly white,—
I have been in the Elf-wife’s dance to-night.’

‘Listen, Herr Oluf, and woe betide!                                                    55
What shall I say to thy dear young bride?’

‘Say I am gone to the wood hard by,
My horse and eke my hound to try.’

Early at dawn, when it was day,
The bride came down in her bride-gear gay.

They drank of mead and they drank of wine:
‘But where is Herr Oluf, bridegroom mine?’

‘Herr Oluf hath gone to the wood hard by,
His horse and eke his hound to try.’

She lifted up the curtains red—
There lay Sir Oluf, and he was dead.

Early at dawn, when the sun was hie,
From Sir Oluf’s gate came corses three,—

Sir Oluf the knight, and his bonnie bride,
And his broken-hearted mother beside.
But all in the moonlight the elves dance featly!

                                                                                                         56

THE LOVER’S STRATAGEM.

IT was the young Herr Carl
     Fell sick, and sick he lay;
He heard nor Mass nor even-song
     For many and many a day.
Thou waitest for me in the bower of roses, all-dearest!

Nor Mass nor even-song
     He heard for many a day;
His sisters and his mother dear
     They nurse him as they may.

First step in his sisters,—
     They stand aloof in fear;
But to his bed his mother creeps,
     And whispers in his ear:

‘And say, my son, Herr Carl,
     Unto thy mother dear,
Is it a sickness of the flesh
     Wherein thou lingerest here?’

‘No sickness of the flesh                                                                    57
     Keepeth me lying here—
But ’tis the little maid, Eline,
     Whom I hold so dear, so dear!’

‘If little Maid Eline
     Maketh thy cheek so wan,
Rise up and ride unto her gate,
     And woo her like a man.’

‘Her father have I asked,
     And he hath answered me,
That I may never wed Eline
     Till I win her secretly.’

Herr Carl arose in bed,
     So sad and sweet of mien;
They have decked him in woman’s gear,
     And called him Maid Christine.

It was the young Herr Carl,
     And forth to kirk went he;
Bright golden gems are on his head,
     But his eyes droop bashfully.

Bright gems are on his head,
     His robe is lily white,
But ye may hear how underneath
     Jingles his armour bright!

Up peeps the fair Eline,                                                                     58
     While all the people pray:
‘And who is yonder stranger maid
     That comes to kirk this day?’

Answered the serving-maids—
     And they were warned, I ween—
‘It is the sister of Herr Carl,
     And she is called Christine.’

It was the fair Eline,
     A lily hand reached she:
‘O will you hither, Maid Christine,
     And keep me company?

‘O little Maid Christine,
     Keep me companie;
Full many a merry song and tale
     I have to tell to thee.

‘Many a merry tale
     Have I to tell to thee,
And how thy brother, young Herr Carl,
     Tried hard to wanton me.’

It was the young Herr Carl
     Smiled in his sleeve, and said,
‘Ne’er heard I that my brother Carl
     Had wantoned wife or maid.’

But when the Mass was sung,                                                            59
     And the priest had gone his way—
‘I swear that thou shalt be my guest,
     O Maid Christine, to-day!’

They ride across the fields,
     And through green groves they go,
And aye the hand of sweet Christine
     Holds the other’s saddle-bow.

Then in the dusky eve
     The dews began to gloam;
It was the little Maid Christine
     Rose up to journey home.

Then sware the fair Eline—
     By God and men sware she—
‘The rude and drunken roam by night,
     And they might wanton thee!’

Then sware the fair Eline—
     By God and man alsò—
‘Here rest with me, sweet Maid Christine;
     It is too late to go.’

Into her sleeping room
     Then went the fair Eline;
And after, laughing in her sleeve,
     Tript little Maid Christine.

He doffed his robe of white,                                                               60
     And eke his skirt of blue,
And, underneath, his suit of mail
     Glittered like golden dew.

Then marvelled fair Eline,
     Such glittering gear to mark:
‘Oh, never saw I maid before
     Who wore so strange a sark!’

‘O tell me, fair Eline,
     And true as Heaven above,
Is there never man in all the world
     Whom thou couldst wed and love?’

‘No man in all the world,
     I swear by Heaven to thee,
Unless it be the young Herr Carl,
     Who ne’er may marry me!’

‘And if thou lovest him—
     Herr Carl, dear brother mine—
I swear to thee, O fair Eline,
     He surely shall be thine!

‘And if thou lovest him—
     Herr Carl, my brother dear—
Oh, turn and kiss him on the cheek,
     For he stands so near, so near!’

‘O hearken, young Herr Carl,
     And kiss me not, I pray;
My father gave my maiden life
     To the cloister yesterday!’

Upon her throbbing heart                                                                   62
     His tender hand laid he:
‘By the good craft that brought me here,
     Herewith I marry thee!’

He kissed her on the cheek,
     He kissed her tenderlie:
‘Oh, wilt thou now to cloister go,
     O fair Eline, from me?’

‘And what care I for cloister?’
     The little maiden laughed;
‘But let the bridal bells be rung,
     And the bridal cup be quaffed.’

’Tis merry in the hall—
     Eline is fairly won—
They merrily drain the bridal cup,
     And are wed at rise o’ sun,
Thou waitest for me in the bower of roses, all-dearest!

                                                                                                       63

THE BONNIE GROOM.

‘O SIT thee down, my bonnie groom,
     And play at dice with me.’
‘I have never a piece of red, red gold,
     Fair maid, to stake with thee.’
The game is played, and hearts are lost and won!

‘O stake thy hat, my bonnie groom,
     And either give or take:
My necklace of the white, white pearl
     Against thy hat I stake.’

When first upon the table board
     The golden dice are played,
The bonnie groom hath lost his hat
     Unto the laughing maid.

‘O sit thee down, my bonnie groom,
     And play at dice with me.’
‘I have never a piece of red, red gold,
     Fair maid, to stake with thee.’

‘O stake thy tunic, bonnie groom,                                                      64
     And either give or take:
Against thy tunic, poor and torn,
     My crown of gold I stake.’

When next upon the table board
     The golden dice are played,
The groom hath lost his tunic poor
     Unto the laughing maid.

‘O sit thee down, my bonnie groom,
     And play at dice with me.’
‘I have never a piece of red, red gold,
     Fair maid, to stake with thee.’

‘O stake thy hose, my bonnie groom,
     And add thy shoon beside:
I stake my honour and my troth,’
     The laughing virgin cried.

When next upon the table board
     The golden dice they pour,
The bonnie groom hath won the game,
     And the maiden smiles no more.

‘O hearken, hearken, bonnie groom;
     I knew not what I said;
My silver-handled knives of price
     I give to thee instead.’

‘Thy silver-handled knives of price                                                    65
     At little worth I hold;
But I will wed the maiden fair
     I have won with dice of gold.’

‘O hearken, hearken, bonnie groom;
     I knew not what I said;
And sarks and stockings, silken-sewn,
     I give to thee instead.’

‘Thy sarks and stockings, slken-sewn,
     At little worth I hold;
But I will wed the maiden fair
     I have won with dice of gold.’

‘O hearken, hearken, bonnie groom;
     I knew not what I said;
A snow-white horse and saddle eke
     I give to thee instead.’

‘Thy snow-white horse and saddle eke
     At little worth I hold;
But I will have the maiden fair
     I have won with dice of gold.’

‘O hearken, hearken, bonnie groom;
     I knew not what I said;
My castle and the wealth therein
     I give to thee instead.’

‘Thy castle and the wealth therein
     At little worth I hold;
But I will wed the maiden fair
     I have won with dice of gold.’

The maiden rends her golden hair,                                                      67
     And hides her pale, pale face:
‘God help a wretched maiden, won
     By a wight so poor and base!’

The bonnie groom stands up in court,
     And taps her with his sword:
‘O I have won thee, maiden fair,
     And I am now thy lord!

‘And yet am I no stable groom,
     Nor yet of low degree;
I am as bonnie and rich a prince
     As dwells in this countree.’

‘Art thou a bonnie prince indeed,
     And not of low degree?
My love, my honour, and my troth
     I gladly give to thee.’
The game is played, and hearts are lost and won!

_____

Ballad Stories of the Affections continued

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