On Sjølund’s plains so
pleasing
On
Sjølund’s plains so pleasing
down
by the Baltic shore,
where
woods with wreaths are friezing
the
flower-strewn meadow-floor,
where
silver streams now softly
glide
past the ruin’s foot,
in
ancient times a lofty
royal
castle there once stood.
In
golden halls so stately
a
merry life was led,
where
all did pleasure greatly
and
jesting words were said:
King
Valdemar had built there
his
stronghold to defend
his
life against all ill there
until
the world should end.
With
hunters he went riding,
upon
his milk-white steed,
o’er
hill and dale, fast striding
no
danger did he heed;
but
at the hounds’ loud baying,
the
horn’s shrill calls far-flung,
they
all forgot their praying
no
holy mass heard sung.
Long
since deep in the earth has
King
Valdemar been laid,
in
legends strange and terse has
his
Hunt though been portrayed.
The
farmer, poor man, crosses
himself
aghast from fright
when
hounds and hunters’ horses
tear
past him late at night.
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