Holger Danske and Stout Didrik

Stout Didrik dwells in Berneland
With brethren eight all told,
And each of them twelve sons hath got,
All doughty knights and bold.
—But the battle is raging northward up in Jutland.

Stout Didrik dwells in Berneland
With fifteen sisters bright,
And each of them hath twelve fair sons
That hold their lives full light.

And when they rode out all by Bern,
A goodly companie,
Sooth to say, each warrior
Was tall as a beechen tree.

“Now we have fought o’er all the world
And conquered far and wide,
And we have heard of Holger Dansk
That doth in Denmark bide.

“We have heard tell of Holger Dansk,
In Jutland doth abide,
And he is crowned with the red, red gold.
And ne’er will bate his pride.”

Oh, Sverting seized a pike of steel,
And spake up loud and high:
“A hundred of Holger Danske’s men
I count them not a fly!”

“Oh, harken, Sverting, thou swarthy swain,
Or ever thou rue the day!
We ha’ heard of Holger Danske’s men,
And bold young blades are they!”

Up and spake tall Bermer-Ris,
And a vaunting word spake he:
“Oh, we will fare to Denmark,
And try if the King will flee!”

Now all with eighteen thousand steeds
From Berneland they fare,
And they’ve drawn up to Denmark
To see King Holger there.

Stout Didrik hath sent a messenger
And bidden King Holger yield,
To pay him scot and lot for aye,
Or meet him in the field.

Up spake Vidrik Verlandson,
He spake a word so stout:
“And come they in to Denmark thus,
They shall not thus go out!”

Oh, they have met, a mighty host,
All on the darksome heath;
And that was a woeful trysting-place
Where warriors fought till death.

They’ve fought for a day, for three they’ve fought,
And stiff in stower they stand;
Holger the King and his mighty men
Slew many from Berneland.

Oh, mild of mood was Bermer-Ris,
And softly spake he then:
“Now how shall we conquer Holger Dansk
With scarce a hundred men?”

It was doughty Didrik
Looked upward to the sky:
“No help is here for us, I ween,
’Tis time to turn and fly!”

Stout Didrik took to both his legs,
To fly o’er hill and dale,
And Sverting went the self-same way
For all his boastful tale.

Up spake little Iron-Wolf,
That held the hill beside:
“Oh, they that are come to fight the Danes
Have little praise or pride!”

When they rode out of Berneland
They were eighteen thousand men;
’Twas scarce a tithe of all that host
That won back home again.

Oh, stern the stream of red, red blood
Ran o’er land and lea!
The reek of it rose up to heaven
Till the sun was bloody and red to see.
—But the battle is raging northward up in Jutland.