“Margjit Hjukse” is a folk ballad from Telemark. Composed in the form and style of a traditional ballad, it is classified as a medieval ballad in the nature‑mythical subgenre, because it tells of an encounter with a supernatural being. It exists in various versions.
Margjit Hjukse
I
Hjukse den stoltaste gard i Saudhera var,
– tii fell meg long’e –
stolt Margjit var dottri uppå den gard.
De er eg som ber sorgji så trong’e.
Stolt Margjit hon reidde seg til kyrkja å gå,
so tok ho den vegjen til bergje låg.
Som ho kom fram med bergevegg
da kom bergekongjen med lange kvite skjegg.
Og bergekongjen tukka fram gyllte stol:
“Set deg her stolt Margjit, og kvil din fot!”
So gav han henne dei raue stakkar tvo
og lauv uti bringa og sylvspente sko.
Møyane tolv dei reidde hennar hår
den trettande sette gullkruna på.
So skjenkte han i av den klåraste vin:
“Drikk utor di, allerkjærasten min!”
Ho var i bergje dei åri ni,
og ho fødde sønir og døttar tri.
II
Og Margjit ho sat med sin handtein og spann,
då høyrde ho Bøheras kyrkjeklokkur klang.
“I bergje hev eg vori i mange år,
no lengtar eg heim til min fa’ers gård.”
Stolt Margjit hon tala til bergekongjen så:
“Må eg få lov til min fa’r å gå?”
“Ja, du må få lov til din fa’er å sjå,
men du må kje vera burte hot ein time hell två.”
III
Stolt Margjit ho gekk den leii so long,
bergekongjen kom ette med hov og med tong.
Som ho kom der gangande i gård
hennas sæle fa’er ute fyr henne står.
“Eg meinar de er Margjit, eg hadde so kjær!
å kjære mi dotter, å er du no der!”
Thor Hjukse han tala til dotter si så:
“No hev du vori burte i fjorten år!”
Han leidde inn stolt Margjit med glee og gråt,
so sette han henne i sin mo’ers stol.
Men då kom bergekongjen snøgt som ein ell:
“Kjem du kje heim att til bonni i kvell?”
“Fare no væl då alle i mit heim!
No kjem eg alli til dikkon mei.”
Stolt Margjit sette seg på gangaren grå,
ho gret fleire tårir hell hesten ha hår.
Hon pikka på bergje med fingane små:
– tii fell meg long’e –
“Statt upp mi eldste dotter, skrei loka ifrå!”
De er eg som ber sorgji så trong’e.
Margjit Hjukse
In Saudhera Hjukse was proudest farm there,
– ne’er comes the morrow –
proud Margjit lived on it, the daughter fair.
It is I who’s so burdened with sorrow.
Proud Margjit to church made ready to go,
the path past the mountain that which she chose.
And when at the rockface at once there appeared
the mountain king with flowing white beard.
The mountain king took out a fine gilded chair:
‘Sit down now proud Margjit, and rest your foot there!’
The next he brought her were red dresses two
with filigree brooches and silver-clasped shoes.
Twelve maids came forward and let her hair down,
a thirteenth maid placed on her head a gold crown.
Then did he pour out the clearest wine:
‘Drain this to the lees, beloved of mine!’
Nine years in the mountain there did she dwell,
and three sons and daughters gave birth to as well.
II
And Margjit sat with her distaff to spin,
when Bøhera’s church bells she heard full ring.
‘I’ve lived in this mountain for many a year,
I long for my father’s farm I hold dear.’
Proud Margjit the mountain king then did plead:
‘Will you allow me my father to see?’
Yes, you may see him without more ado,
but not stay away more than one hour or two.’
III
Proud Margjit she took the path so long
the mountain king followed with hammer and tongs.
And as she entered the farm courtyard square,
her joyful father did greet her there.
‘You seem to me Margjit that I loved so dear!
Oh my dearest daughter, and are you now here!’
Thor Hjukse he spoke to his daughter this way:
Now full fourteen years have you been away!’
He led in proud Margjit, joy’s tears on his face,
in the chair of her mother he her then did place.
But in rushed the mountain king, swift as a fire:
Why are you still here now your time must expire?’
‘Farewell my loved ones, for whom I yearn!
To all you at home I can never return.’
Proud Margjit she mounted her steed with remorse,
more were her tears than the hairs on her horse.
With her small fingers she tapped on the rock
– ne’er comes the morrow –
‘Rise up, eldest daughter, and throw back the lock!’
It is I who’s so burdened with sorrow.
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