Sir John Rimord's Son's Shrift

The grass is green beneath the ship,
She is rotting on the shore:
A captain, brave as was Sir John,
Shall never steer her more.

In Ribe sits the Danish King,
And writes a stern decree,
To summon out his liegemen all,
And bid them put to sea.

"Now" said Sir John, as o'er his neck
His linked mail he threw,
"Who sails not out with us today,
"Nor loyal is, nor true.

"Aye" said Sir John, said Rimord's son,
And girded on his sword,
"Who sails not out with ns today,
"A traitor is to his lord."

"Tonight we'll drink a full carouse,
"Can we but get the ale;
"Tomorrow, if the breeze is fair,
"We'll put to sea and sail."

"Such words'' said Rimord's son, Sir John,
"Let none to our lord convey;
"His will and written brief we've heard,
"And needs must all obey."

The skipper Hogen, pious man.
The scowling heavens he scann'd;
"Who ventures out to sea today,
"Alive no more shall land."

But up spake Rimord's son, Sir John,
And loud he made it ring;
"And who goes not on board today,
"Is traitor to his King."

Again from his window gazed abroad
That skipper old and sage;
"No man can put to sea today,
"While storm like this shall rage."

But undismayed did Rimord's son
His sturdy comrades hail;
"In God's name off with me, my Danes,
"And spread aloft the sail."

Scarce out from land, they saw the waves
With fury rage and roar;
Th' old skipper Hogen through the mist
Could see the lea no more.

In fearful sport on the wild sea
They saw the billows rise,
And mute and sad the old skipper sat,
The teardrops in his eyes.

"Fore wind and wave drove on the ship
Amid the tempest din,
And still and gloomy sat Sir John,
His hand beneath his chin.

While every squall across the deck
The salty billows drove,
Still, as though ladies cut his hair,
Was he not seen to move.

"But where are now the troopers bold,
"Yestreen such speeches made?
"Let them now take the helm in hand,
"The anchor's fairly weighed.

"Aye! where are all the braggarts now,
"Who lately made such boast?
"Let them go stand beside the helm,
"The sail is fairly loos'd/'

'Twas so that ancient skipper spake.
His face with terror pale;
"There's here some murderous wretch on board,
"Hinders the ship to sail.

"Up, men, we'll cast the lot about,
"On whom it falls we'll see;
"And if there sails a villain here,
"Go overboard shall he."

And it was Rimord's son, Sir John,
With manly voice he cried;
"Go, fetch me, boy, the chequer board,
"The dice shall that decide."

They cast them out, the dice so small,
They tried them throw by throw,
And so it fell, 'twas e'en Sir John,
That overboard should go.

"We've sail'd away so far from land,
"No holy priest is near;
"But ne'er the-less my shrift I'll make,
"Our Lord in mercy hear."

And so did Rimord's son, Sir John,
Fall on his naked knee.
And make his shrift before the mast
Out on the roaring sea.

"Beguil'd full many a widow fair
"And many a maid have I,
"But never dream'd, that out at sea
"'Twas fated I should die.

"Widows and maids beguil'd have I,
"And many a virtuous wife,
"But never dream'd in happier days
"I here should lose my life.

"I landed once at Helsingborg
"For murder, waste; and spoil,
"And many an honest peasant boy
"Buried in heathen soil.

"Cloisters I've burnt, and churches too,
"Or robb'd of all their worth;
"And many a pious nun deflour'd
"Of high and noble birth.

"Thanks be to thee, thou great good Christ,
"For grace thou now hast given!
"For lost had surely been my soul,
"Had I been drown'd unshriven.

"If one of you should come to land,
"And chance to meet my bride,
"Tell her she is free to pledge her hand,
"For in the sea I've died.

"But if, when you shall be on land,
"My mother ask for me,
"Tell her I serve the king at court,
"And live in health and glee."

Three money-pouches took Sir John,
And firmly about him bound:
"A boon for him who lays my corse
"Beneath some holy ground."

Loud rose their cry, as crosswise spread
He sank to rise no more.
And took a wild untravell'd path
Down to the Ocean's floor.

Of all the seven and seventy men,
That forth from court had gone,
There came no more than five to land,
Sir John's small page was one.

"Now let us out to the churchyard go
"For Rimord's son to pray;
"For never again will Danish King
"His equal have in pay."

There's lying dry at Borringholm
The riven and useless boat,
And tossing on the ruthless stream
Their wretched corpses float.