Saint Olave at Hornelen

Saint Olave, good king, o'er Norway's land
So well and so wisely reign'd,
God's word he made wife and man obey,
And justice and law maintain'd.

Saint Olave down on the ocean strand
Had built him a gallant Snake,
And now on the Trolds at Hornelen,
His vengeance resolved to take.

But answer'd the steersman, as at the stern
With rudder in hand he stood;
"So grim are the Trolds at Hornelen,
"That harbour was never good."

Up spake King Olave so free and bold,
And sprang on his Ox's prow;
"Take tackle on board, and now cast off,'
"In Jesus' name let go."

The Ox he puff'd, and loud he blew,
And over the billows strode;
So sail'd Saint Olave to Hornelen,
With woe to the Trold's abode.

The giant he stalk'd from out the hill,
Along the hoary rocks,
And saw there Olave the sainted king,
And breasting the wave his Ox.

His eyes were like two burning pyres,
And yawning his mouth to shout;
His finger nails were hooked and long,
Like goat's horns hanging out.

A beard he had like a horse's mane,
That hung to touch his knee;
His body was long, and skagg'd with hair,
And fearful his claws to see.

"There never in older times or since
"A snake-ship has come to land,
"That off to my cavern I could not drag,
"With only a single hand."

"Then" answer'd him Olave, the sainted king,
He fear'd not a Troldish foe,
"Throw over the Ox thy cords and chains,
"And see how that will go."

The Ox he seiz'd by his horn and stern,
And thought to have crush'd with ease,
Bat into a cliff he sank himself,
Till over both his knees.

"Though here I must stand a sunken rock,
"And further I cannot move,
"A strain of the back and tug of hand
"With thee I would gladly prove."

"Hold thou thy peace, thou baleful sprite,
"Aud there as a rock remain;
"For never till Doomsday hurt shalt thou
"A Christian man again."

Out ran from a cavern an aged hag,
And yeird with a voice so shrill,
And look'd so grim, as she hobbled along,
He bade the old crone be still.

Much wonder'd at this the smaller Trolds,
Who dwelt on the rocky shore;
"But what has befallen our aged crone,
"That now she cries no more?

"Then surely this is the Redbeard saint
"Who long has threatened our race;
"If we with our iron bars come out,
"We'll give him but little grace."

But turn'd were their trunks to shapeless blocks,
Their necks to their body press'd,
Their backs all broken to pieces small,
And heads crush'd into their breast.

Such wonder at Hornelen then was wrought,
As never was wrought before;
The cave with water was drown'd so deep,
That no one could find the door.

So thanks let all men give to God,
And thanks to Saint Olave too,
The sailor to Hornelen now may steer,
Nor care for what Trolds may do.