The Fountain of Maribo, and Other Ballads

It was youthful Angelfyr
He sprang on his courser’s back:
“And I will ride to Upsal too,
Though the earth beneath me crack.”

And when they entered the castle yard
They doffed their cloaks of skin;
Then straight they strode to the high, high hall,
To the monarch of Upsal in.

In came youthful Helmer Kamp,
With grace and beauty rife:
“O King, thy daughter dear I love,
Wilt give her me for wife?”

In came youthful Angelfyr,
His steely helmet shone:
“O King, give up thy daughter to me,
And straight from the land begone.”

Then answered soon the Upsal-King,
And a brave reply he gave:
“On my daughter I’ll no husband force,
She’ll choose whom she will have.”

“Now many thanks, dear father, that
Thou leav’st the choice to me;
I’ll plight me to young Helmer Kamp,
He’s like a man to see.

“But I’ll not have young Angelfyr,
He’s an ugly Trold to view;
His father so is, his mother so is,
So are all his kindred too.”

Then answered the young Angelfyr,
So sorely wroth he grew:
“Come, brother, come to the court-yard down,
For her we will battle do.”

Then up and spake the Upsal King,
And the Upsal King did say:
“The swords are sharp, the swains are stark,
There’ll be, I trow, good play.”

Alf he stands at Odderskier,
And he listens the mountains tow’rds;
Then must he hear so far, far off
The clash of his children’s swords.

And that heard Alf of Odderskier,
So far across the down:
“What have my sons now got in hand?
Why so wrathful are they grown?”

He tarried then so short a space,
He sprang on his courser red;
And he arrived at Upsala
Before his sons lay dead.

“Now tell me, youthful Helmer Kamp,
Tell me my dearest son,
Wherefore so free from thy flesh and bone
Those bloody rivers run?”

Then answered the young Helmer Kamp,
As he writhed him round with pain;
This Angelfyr, my brother, has done
Since the maid he could not gain.

I have full fifteen mortal wounds,
They are blent with poison all;
But if I had only one of them,
I dead full soon must fall.”

“Now list to me, young Angelfyr,
Beloved son of mine;
Say, wherefore trembles so the sword,
In that good hand of thine?”

“Ask’st thou why trembles so the sword
In this right hand of mine?
Because I’ve eighteen mortal wounds,
And to hurt me they combine.

“I have full eighteen mortal wounds,
And each so deadly sore;
If I had only one of them
I could not live an hour.”

It was Alf of Odderskier,
An oak by the root uptore;
It was the young Helmer Kamp
Whom dead he laid in gore.

Now lie the valiant kempions two,
Within a single grave;
And the King to his daughter cannot give
The swain whom she will have.