Sir Morten of Fogelsong

Sir Morten, lord of Fogelsong,
Rode over the greenwood lawn,
And there he breath'd a poison blast,
About the morning dawn.
Dead rides Sir Marten of Fogelsong.

He gave the cloister his good grey horse,
The church a sum of gold,
And died, and with a solemn dirge
Was laid beneath the mould.

All heap'd with earth, as best they could,
They left his buried corse,
But ere the toll of midnight bell
He rose and mounted horse.

A knight there was, Sir Folmer Skot,
Rode over hill and dale,
And after him Sir Morten rode,
And pray'd him hear his tale.

"O stay, thou good Sir Folmer Skot,
"And kindly lend a ear,
"And by my holy Christian faith
"No harm hast thou to fear."

"But first, Sir Morten, tell me how
"Thou ridest here to day,
"And only yesternight a corse
"We laid thee in the clay?"

"It's not for doom I am riding here,
"It's not at court to sue,
"But only for a plot of ground
"To two small orphans due.

It's not because of buried gold,
It's not to venge a wrong;
But for those orphans' little field
Forsworn to Fogelsong.

"Now haste to Lady Mettelille,
And tell her my request,
"She give those orphans back the field,
"And let my soul have rest.

"And tell the Lady Mettelille,
"If doubt should cross her mind,
"That close beside my chamber door
"My slippers she may find.

"Those two nightslippers, where they stand
"Beside the chamber door,
"Tonight ere toll of midnight bell
"Shall both be full of gore."

"Go then, go rest thy weary bones, "
Sir Morten, noble knight,
"For on my Christian faith I swear,
"Those orphans get their right."

And all in black Sir Morten went
Down to his dark abode,
And black were both his hawk and hound,
And troop that with him rode.

The noble Lady Mettelille
Obey'd her lord's request,
And gave the children back their field,
And so his soul had rest.