The Maiden at the Thing

Young was Inge the maid,
—In the green grove—
Yet she rode to the Thing unafraid.
—To ride to the maiden’s bower.

Up and spake to his knights the King:
“I spy a maiden that rides to the Thing!”

The little foot-page he answered then:
“Oh, she comes here a-riding to gaze upon the men!

“But see her kirtle’s old-fashioned shape,
And only look on her ill-cut cape!”

For all the maiden was so meek
She heard each word the page did speak.

“And if my heart had felt no tene,
I had been better at home, I ween!

“And did I not know mine errand well,
I had been better at home to dwell!

“But my kirtle hath no ill-favoured shape,
And after the mode is cut my cape.

“Thou King o’ Danes, now hark and hear;
A plaint have I for thy gracious ear.

“I was but a little child
Whenas I lost my mother mild.

“My father set me on his knee,
And divided with me both gold and fee.

“But he died or ever two years were done;
O’er house and lands I must rule alone.

“But in there came my uncles three,
All my goods they waste from me.

“The mown they mar, the sown they spoil,
Both man and maid they lure from toil.

“Oxen and kine they drive abroad,
They wile my serving-men from my board.

“Ere I’ll live longer without relief
I’ll give thee my father’s lands in fief!”

“Now thanks to thee for thy gift, O maid!
Say, which of my knights thou fain wouldst wed?”

“And may I speak as my choice is made,
’Tis Sir Ove Stison I fain would wed.”

“Stand up, Sir Ove, and answer free;
Here is a maiden will marry thee!”

Up stood Sir Ove, and answered so free:
“Fair maiden, nought shalt thou win from me!

“Better can I tie a silken band
Than play the farmer on lea and land.

“Better can I ride with hawk and hound
Than drive the plough through the heavy ground!”

“Oh, sit in my chariot all by me,
So good a farmer I’ll make of thee!

“Take plough in hand, lay the furrow featly,
Take corn in hand, and scatter it meetly.

“And let the harrow after go,
Thou’lt make a goodly farmer so;

“And of thy meat thou’lt be so fain
That men will call thee a right true Dane!”

To laugh and be merry men were not loth
When Sir Ove plighted the maid his troth.

All alone to the Thing she hied,
The King he led her home again, and all his swains beside.
—In the green grove,
To ride to the maiden’s bower.