Queen Dagmar’s Bridal

It was the Queen of Bejerland
That to her daughter cried:
“Great honour will they show to thee
When thou art Denmark’s bride.”
—They sailed from noblest Bejerland.

“When thou art wed to Denmark’s King
Thou shalt have pride and praise;
Now bid the peasant pay no tax,
And he’ll love thee all his days!

“This first boon beg thou of thy lord,
And beg it withouten fear,
That Bishop Valdemar go free,
Thy mother’s brother dear!”

They spread the cloths of samite
To lie her feet before;
They took her, the lady Dagmar,
And led her to the shore.

They hoisted up their sails of silk
All on the golden mast,
And so they sailed to Denmark
Or e’er two months were past.

Down they cast their anchors
All in the snow-white sand;
They took her, the lady Dagmar,
And led her first to land.

They took her, the lady Dagmar,
And led her first to land;
It was the King of Denmark
Stretched forth his lily hand.

They spread the cloths of samite
To lie her feet before;
They led her, the lady Dagmar,
Up to the castle door.

All in the morning early,
Long ere the dawn of day,
It was the lady Dagmar
Her bridal-gift did pray.

“The first boon that I beg of thee,
I beg withouten fear;
Let Bishop Valdemar go free,
My mother’s brother dear!

“The second boon I beg of thee
’Tis with good-will, I trow;
Loose every captive from his irons,
And tax not the peasant’s plough!”

“Hush thee now, Queen Dagmar,
Speak no such words to me!
If Bishop Valdemar comes forth
A widow he’ll make of thee!”

She’s taken off her crown of gold
And laid it on the board:
“Oh, what shall I do in Denmark
Since thou wilt not hear my word?”

“Now bring me in Sir Strange,
And bring Sir Knud to me!
’Tis they shall ride to Attingborg
And set the captives free!”

And when he came from dungeon forth
He could not stand nor go:
“Here have I lain eight years and more,
Long years, I ween, and slow!”

She’s taken out her comb of gold,
To comb his yellow hair:
For every lock she ordered
Down fell a bitter tear.

“Harken now, Queen Dagmar,
And weep not thus for me!
For an I live but a twelvemonth
Sore shall my vengeance be!”

“Now hush thee, Bishop Valdemar,
Let be thy chiding vain!
Art thou thrown once more into Attingborg
Thou’lt ne’er win out again!”
—They sailed from noblest Bejerland.