The Serpent Knight, and Other Ballads

And then to blast my blissful lot
My step-dame wild came striding up.

That God should make my lot so blest
My wicked step-dame could not bear;
She changed me to a sword so keen,
And bade me far and wide to fare.

By day I grac’d the side of the knight,
I hung the hero’s heart so near;
At night I lay beneath his head,
For his good sword he loved so dear.

That God had made my lot so blest
My wicked step-dame could not bear;
She changed me to a little knife,
And bade me far and wide to fare.

By day I was in the Lady’s hand,
The linen white with me she cut;
At night within her bower I slept,
All in her golden casket put.

That God had made my lot so blest,
My wicked step-dame could not bear;
She changed me to a little hind,
And bade me wander far and near.

She changed me to a little hind,
And bade me wander far and near;
My seven maids to wolves she changed,
And fiercely urged them me to tear.

My seven maidens were so kind,
They all refus’d the hind to tear;
Then vexed was my step-mother wild
That God had made my lot so fair.

The young Sir Henrik serves at court,
He is a knight of handsome mien;
For me he sorrowed day and night,
But would not let his grief be seen.

Sir Henrik roves with bow in hand
The good green wood at morning tide;
Then up there came a little hind,
And fondly she the warrior eyed.

Then up there came a little hind
Before the young knight as he rang’d;
Then off she cast her bestial shape,
And to a lovely damsel changed.

He took her tenderly in his arm,
He called her oft his bosom’s dear:
“Thrice praised be God in heav’n that dwells
That I have found my damsel here.

“I have not any servant, love,
Nor hast thou any maid, my fair,
So we’ll pull down the linden leaves,
And thus our bridal bed prepare.”

It was then the damsel fair,
Within the bed herself she placed;
It was the brave Sir Henrik then
Sweet sank to sleep by her embraced.

Full sorely wept the damsel fair,
As sleep began his eyes to find;
Assuming then her bestial shape,
She went away – a hapless hind.

THE CUCKOO

From the Danish.

Yonder the cuckoo flutters,
Cuckoo, Cuckoo! he utters,
And lights the beech upon;
Many a voice is sweeter,
But do not mock the creature,
Let each enjoy his own.

He knows no notes of passion,
A new song cannot fashion;
True to the ancient rule,
What his good sires respected
By him is not neglected, —
Is he for that a fool?

O thou, my human brother,
Who scorning every other
With self-conceit dost swell,
We cannot all be gallants,
Not equal are our talents —
Thou art no nightingale!