Romantic Ballads, by George Borrow

Transcribed from the 1913 Jarrold and Sons edition by David Price, email [email protected]

ROMANTIC BALLADS,
TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH;
AND
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES;

by

GEORGE BORROW.

* * * * *

Through gloomy paths unknown—
   Paths which untrodden be,
From rock to rock I roam
   Along the dashing sea.

BOWRING.

* * * * *

NORWICH:
printed and published by jarrold and sons.
1913

Contents.

Preface

Lines from Allan Cunningham to George Borrow

The Death-raven.  From the Danish of Oehlenslæger

Fridleif and Helga.  From the Danish of Oehlenslæger

Sir Middel.  From the Old Danish

Elvir-shades.  From the Danish of Oehlenslæger

The Heddybee-spectre.  From the Old Danish

Sir John.  From the Old Danish

May Asda.  From the Danish of Oehlenslæger

Aager and Eliza.  From the Old Danish

Saint Oluf.  From the Old Danish

The Heroes of Dovrefeld.  From the Old Danish

Svend Vonved.  From the Old Danish

The Tournament.  From the Old Danish

Vidrik Verlandson.  From the Old Danish

Elvir Hill.  From the Old Danish

Waldemar’s Chase

The Merman.  From the Old Danish

The Deceived Merman.  From the Old Danish

Miscellanies.

Cantata

The Hail-storm.  From the Norse

The Elder-witch

Ode.  From the Gælic

Bear song.  From the Danish of Evald

National song.  From the Danish of Evald

The Old Oak

Lines to Six-foot Three

Nature’s Temperaments.  From the Danish of Oehlenslæger

The Violet-gatherer.  From the Danish of Oehlenslæger

Ode to a Mountain-torrent.  From the German of Stolberg

Runic Verses

Thoughts on Death.  From the Swedish of C. Lohman

Birds of Passage.  From the Swedish

The Broken Harp

Scenes

The Suicide’s Grave.  From the German

The Original Title Page.
200 copies by subscription

The London (John Taylor) Title Page.
300 copies including those bearing the imprint of
Wightman & Cramp.

PREFACE

The ballads in this volume are translated from the Works of Oehlenslæger, (a poet who is yet living, and who stands high in the estimation of his countrymen,) and from the Kiæmpé Viser, a collection of old songs, celebrating the actions of the ancient heroes of Scandinavia.

The old Danish poets were, for the most part, extremely rude in their versification.  Their stanzas of four or two lines have not the full rhyme of vowel and consonant, but merely what the Spaniards call the “assonante,” or vowel rhyme, and attention seldom seems to have been paid to the number of feet on which the lines moved along.  But, however defective their poetry may be in point of harmony of numbers, it describes, in vivid and barbaric language, scenes of barbaric grandeur, which in these days are never witnessed; and, which, though the modern muse may imagine, she generally fails in attempting to pourtray, from the violent desire to be smooth and tuneful, forgetting that smoothness and tunefulness are nearly synonymous with tameness and unmeaningness.

I expect shortly to lay before the public a complete translation of the Kiæmpé Viser, made by me some years ago; and of which, I hope, the specimens here produced will not give an unfavourable idea.

It was originally my intention to publish, among the “Miscellaneous Pieces,” several translations from the Gælic, formerly the language of the western world; the noble tongue

“A labhair Padric’ nninse Fail na Riogh.
‘San faighe caomhsin Colum náomhta’ n I.”

Which Patrick spoke in Innisfail, to heathen chiefs of old
Which Columb, the mild prophet-saint, spoke in his island-hold—

but I have retained them, with one exception, till I possess a sufficient quantity to form an entire volume.

FROM ALLAN CUNNINGHAM,
TO GEORGE BORROW,

On his proposing to translate the ‘Kiæpé Viser.’

Sing, sing, my friend; breathe life again
Through Norway’s song and Denmark’s strain:
On flowing Thames and Forth, in flood,
Pour Haco’s war-song, fierce and rude.
O’er England’s strength, through Scotland’s cold,
His warrior minstrels marched of old—
Called on the wolf and bird of prey
To feast on Ireland’s shore and bay;
And France, thy forward knights and bold,
Rough Rollo’s ravens croaked them cold.
Sing, sing of earth and ocean’s lords,
Their songs as conquering as their swords;
Strains, steeped in many a strange belief,
Now stern as steel, now soft as grief—
Wild, witching, warlike, brief, sublime,
Stamped with the image of their time;
When chafed—the call is sharp and high
For carnage, as the eagles cry;
When pleased—the mood is meek, and mild,
And gentle, as an unweaned child.
Sing, sing of haunted shores and shelves,
St. Oluf and his spiteful elves,
Of that wise dame, in true love need,
Who of the clear stream formed the steed—
How youthful Svend, in sorrow sharp,
The inspired strings rent from his harp;
And Sivard, in his cloak of felt,
Danced with the green oak at his belt—
Or sing the Sorceress of the wood,
The amorous Merman of the flood—
Or elves that, o’er the unfathomed stream,
Sport thick as motes in morning beam—
Or bid me sail from Iceland Isle,
With Rosmer and fair Ellenlyle,
What time the blood-crow’s flight was south,
Bearing a man’s leg in its mouth.
Though rough and rude, those strains are rife
Of things kin to immortal life,
Which touch the heart and tinge the cheek,
As deeply as divinest Greek.
In simple words and unsought rhyme,
Give me the songs of olden time.

THE DEATH-RAVEN.
FROM THE DANISH OF OEHLENSLÆGER.

The silken sail, which caught the summer breeze,
Drove the light vessel through the azure seas;
Upon the lofty deck, Dame Sigrid lay,
And watch’d the setting of the orb of day:
Then, all at once, the smiling sky grew dark,
The breakers rav’d, and sinking seem’d the bark;
The wild Death-raven, perch’d upon the mast,
Scream’d ’mid the tumult, and awoke the blast.

Dame Sigrid saw the demon bird on high,
And tear-drops started in her beauteous eye;
Her cheeks, which late like blushing roses bloom’d,
Had now the pallid hue of fear assum’d:
“O wild death-raven, calm thy frightful rage,
Nor war with one who warfare cannot wage.
Tame yonder billows, make them cease to roar,
And I will give thee pounds of golden ore.”

“With gold thou must not hope to pay the brave,
For gold I will not calm a single wave,
For gold I will not hush the