Anon Danish ballad: 'Kongens Søn aff Engeland'

 

 

 

The King’s Son of Engeland

 

The song does not say anything about where this king’s son of England has been, nor is there any mention of him in our Danish or English histories. But the fact the Sir Bugge (Niels Bugge, c.1300-1358) is named here would seem to place the story at 1330 AD or thereabouts. At that time, Edward III had just come to the throne, and he took Count Wilhelm’s daughter Philippa of Holland as his wife. What voyages were undertaken by the young Lord’s fleet of ships is not known for certain. But it is still in many a man’s memory among those who live at Bovbjerg that in former days such a royal personage from England was ship-wrecked there, and that in memory of this Staby Church was decorated with a gilt plaque and a new tower, etc.

 

 

The King’s Son of Engeland

 

The king’s son of Engeland,

Has gold rings bright-gleaming on each hand,

And on his saddle bow gold gleams red.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

And on his saddle bow gold glows red,

A proud fair maiden he shall wed:

The king’s son he has a fine ship made.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

The king’s son he has a fine ship made.

Such as never its anchor has weighed;

Twixt port and starboard painted in gold.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

Twixt port and starboard painted in gold,

God’s word stood writ for all to behold.

From stern to prow it was gilded there,

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

From stern to prow it was gilded there,

The King’s Son embraced his maiden fair:

Without stood small lions bold of hue.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

Without stood small lions bold of hue,

the one was yellow the other blue:

Within the ship there stood a mast.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

Within the ship there stood a mast,

five hundred nobles it had cost:

A weather vane this mast did preen.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

A weather vane this mast did preen

Such as the North Sea never had seen:

With bright-red gold were the anchors laid.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

With bright-red gold were the anchors laid,

of pappus wool were the sails all made.

All the ropes that were on board.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

All the ropes that were on board

were firmly fixed with silken cord:

Every rope and every band.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

Every rope and every band

were twined by the maiden’s own fair hand:

Their sails were all of finest silk made.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

Their mainsail was of finest silk made,

with many port holes the ship arrayed:

And above the sail there stands a cross.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

And above the sail there stands a cross.

May our Lord Jesus watch over us:

The King his son gives sound advice.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

The King his son gives sound advice

which he must heed at any price

Be always to honour and glory inclined.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

Be always to honour and glory inclined,

Let money not master or govern your mind:

Spare neither silver nor gold red in hue.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

Spare neither silver nor gold red in hue

And give your trusty men what they are due:

The king with his son went down to the strand. 

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

The king and son went down to the strand 

and knights and men shoved him off from the land:

The king’s son then his hat did raise.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

The king’s son then his hat did raise.

Father and mother, God bless you always:

Both father and mother and lady fair.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

Both father and mother and lady fair,

May God keep us safely in his care:

They had not sailed all that far from land.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

They had not sailed all that far from land

when a mighty storm assailed the strand:

Dark clouds piled up and gale winds blew,

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

Dark clouds piled up and gale winds blew,

Neither land nor shelter the crew then knew,

So they dropped anchor as soon as bidden.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

So they dropped anchor as soon as bidden.

That thirty winters had lain there hidden:

They dropped it into the storm-tossed wave.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

They dropped it into the storm-tossed wave

that twice had been on the holy grave:

You Danish men, be bold of mind.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

You Danish men, be bold of mind,

the rope with silken threads is twined:

He hoped no danger them would stay.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

He hoped no danger them would stay,

The prince began then to chant a lay:

And it was before that midnight came.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

And it was before that midnight came,

the rope so strong was rent in twain:

The prince sat down on the golden chest.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

The prince sat down on the golden chest.

His cheek was pale, his mind oppressed:

It was a sorrowful sight to see.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

It was a sorrowful sight to see,

The fine ship reduced to mere debris:

The prince, alive still, reached the land.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

The prince, alive still, reached the land,

walked up and down the storm-tossed strand:

The prince he walked and much complained.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

The prince he walked and much complained,

I think from injustice I have abstained:

Except I once took a small red steed.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

Except I once took a small red steed

from a fatherless maiden, a loathsome deed:

If God should grant I ever come home.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

If God should grant I ever come home,

I shall give her two instead of one:

No sooner had these words been spoken.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

No sooner had these words been spoken

Than his chest was washed up on land unbroken:

And a scullion came along the shore.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

And a scullion came along the shore,

The hurt he caused the prince was sore:

With him he had now all the five men.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

With him he had now all the five men.

Sir Eske Frost himself rode with them:

The tears then coursed down the king’s son cheek.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

The tears then coursed down the king’s son cheek,

Alas, my fate here at Bovbjerg’s bleak!

With me things have gone from bad to worse!

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

With me things have gone from bad to worse,

In Sir Eske Frost’s power I’m accursed.

Had I but come to Sir Bugge’s fief!

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

Had I but come to Sir Bugge’s fief,

No knight or squire would have been my thief!

Sir Eske’s scullion is my bane! 

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

Sir Eske’s scullion is my bane!

I’ll avenge this should I reach home again:

If God should grant I remain alive.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

If God should grant I remain alive,

To the King of Denmark I’ll this ascribe:

As soon as Sir Bugge receives this news.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

As soon as Sir Bugge receives this news,

He will dispatch his two sons in pursuit:

He will dispatch five men withal.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

He will dispatch five men withal

and have him brought back to home and hall:

Sir Bugge he kindly received the young lord.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

Sir Bugge he kindly received the young lord,

the Danes let him journey to England once more:

Where gifts and great honour were fitting reward.

But the westerly wind blows them in towards Denmark.

 

Dan Andersson: 'Frestaren'

 

Frestaren

 

”Och i natt kan jag giva dig allt vad du vill,

all världen - önskar du mer?

Om du blott för min ondska en enda gång

på ödmjuka knän faller ner.

 

Du skall bliva som jag – som urberget hård,

med en panna, fast som metall,

du skall slå de svaga och le åt blod

och själv vara liknöjd och kall.

 

Du skall vandra i vildmark och finna din väg

genom nödens bittraste höst,

när du frågar skall mörkret giva dig svar,

och i gråt må du hava din tröst.

 

Du skall svika din kvinna för nöjet blott,

och din vän för silver och gull,

och din bror skall du hata för hatet självt

och en fattig för trasornas skull.” –

 

*

 

Allt detta blev talat en ondskans kväll,

när synden var röd som blod,

allt detta har djävulen lovat mig,

men det fattas mig kraft och mod.

 

 

The tempter

 

And tonight I can grant you all that you wish,

the whole world– is more then your plea?

If only just once for my evil’s sake

you humbly will bend the knee.

 

You will be as I am – as ancient hard rock,

your brow firm as metal’s strong hold,

you will batter the weak and laugh at blood

though yourself be uncaring and cold. 

 

You will roam in the desert and find your path

through the bitterest harvest of need,

when you question the darkness shall answer you,

and for solace on tears you will feed.

 

You’ll betray your woman to please your whim

and your friend for silver and gold,

and your brother will hate for mere hatred’s sake

and a poor man for rags torn and old.” –

 

*

 

One night full of evil all this was said,

when as red as blood was sin,

the devil has promised me all of this,

but my courage and force are thin.

 

Nils Ferlin: 'Får jag lämna några blommor'

 

Får jag lämna några blommor

 

Får jag lämna några blommor – ett par rosor i din vård,

och du må ej varda ledsen, min kära.

Ty de rosorna är komna från en konungagård,

det vill svärd till att komma dem så nära.

 

Den ena den är vit 

och den andra den är röd,

men den tredje vill jag helst dej förära.

Den blommar inte nu, 

först när givaren är död,

– den är underlig den rosen min kära.

 

-------------

 

Den ena den är vit 

och den andra den är röd,

men den tredje vill jag helst dej förära.

Den blommar inte nu, 

först när givaren är död,

– men då blommar den rätt länge, min kära.

 

 

May I leave some flowers when parting

 

May I leave some flowers when parting – a few roses for your care,

and you must ward off all sadness, my dear one.

For a royal estate is where they have bloomed once, and I swear

it would take a sword for one to get near one.

 

The first one, it is white

and the second, it is red,

but the third I would bestow my heart’s nearest.

It will not bloom until

he who gives it is no more –

it is strange indeed that rose is, my dearest.

 

--------------

 

The first one, it is white

and the second, it is red,

but the third I would bestow my heart’s nearest.

It will not bloom until

he who gives it is no more –

but will bloom then quite a long time, my dearest.

 

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe: 'Gretchen am Spinnrade'

 

Gretchen at the Spinning Wheel

 

All my rest is gone,

my heart is lead;

I’ll never no never

repair the thread.

 

Now that he’s not mine

I hear grave’s call,

The whole wide world

is sour as gall.

 

My wretched head

grows quite insane,

My wretched mind

bursts from the pain.

 

All my rest is gone,

my heart is lead;

I’ll never no never

repair the thread.

 

Just at the window

For him do I gaze

Just from this house now

My heart strays.

 

His stately form

And bearing I prize,

His own way of smiling,

And the power of his eyes,

 

The stream of magic

From his lips,

His hands’ firm clasp,

And oh his kiss!

 

All my rest is gone,

my heart is lead;

I’ll never no never

repair the thread.

 

To him my breast

would now take flight

Ah, could I grasp him

And hold him tight,

 

And on his lips

My kisses strew,

And from his kissing

then swoon anew!

 

B.S. Ingemann: 'På Sjølunds Fagre Sletter'

 

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.

Gerrit Kouwenaar: 'De taal'

 

De taal

 

De taal behoort aan de vogels 

ik ben te mens om te vliegen 

ik sta als een huis op de wereld 

gebouwd en dik uit aarde 

 

ik ben ongeveer degene 

die schuilgaat binnen de muren 

en uitvloeit achter de ramen 

van de blauwe achterkamer 

 

het geurt er naar mest en naar liefde 

er staat een plant in een kooi 

de taal behoort aan de vogels 

de mens schuilt weg in het woord -

 

 

Language

 

Language belongs to the birds

I’m too much a human to fly

I stand like a house in the world

built and thick with earth

 

I’m more or less the one

who hides inside the walls

and seeps out behind the windows

of the blue back room

 

the smell there is of dung and of love

there is a plant in a cage

language belongs to the birds

humans hide away in words –

Lars Gustafsson: 'Stjärnhimmel'

 

Stjärnhimmel i mars, sedd från Isaac Newton’s rum

i Trinity College, Cambridge

 

Stjärnorna framträder, en efter en,

så som de alltid har varit.

Outtömlig sorlar gårdens springbrunn.

Dagg faller i mjuka gräset,

tills varje droppe är ett teleskop.

Lycka över allt som rör sig i vårnatten,

vind från avlägsna fält, rakt genom

detta stora ur som vi bebor,

för ännu några år av tid.

Och alla himlens stjärnor roterar outsägliga

inne i sin lycka.

 

 

Starry sky in March, seen from Isaac Newton’s room

in Trinity College Cambridge

 

The stars come out, one by one,

just as they always have been.

Inexhaustible the quad’s fountain plashes.

Dew falls in the soft grass,

until each drop is a telescope.

Joy over all that moves in the spring night,

wind from distant fields, straight through

this great clock which we inhabit

for yet a few more years of time.

And all of heaven’s spheres rotate ineffable

within their joy.

 

Olof von Dalin: 'Skatan sitter på kyrkotorn'

 

Skatan sitter på kyrkotorn,

och gåsen läggs i en gryta;

och den som har sitt hjärtekorn,

behöver därmed ej skryta.

 

Lilla vän, kom tag i ring

och dansa golvet i splitter!

Gör inte narr av hjärtesting:

jag känner bäst var det sitter.

 

Hiss upp segel, nu ha vi vind,

jag vågar alltid på skutan!

Var tar sin, så tar jag min,

och stackare den som blir utan!

 

Havet svallar och skeppet far

från Göteborg till Kina;

och den sin vän i tankar har

kan inte rasa och flina.

 

Fågeln sjunger i grönan lund,

och kvisten börjar att bära.

Jag tänker på var rolig stund

som jag lär få med min kära!

 

Sätt dig neder i bara snön,

så fryser du ej om pannan!

Och om min ängel ej vore skön,

så tog jag säkert en annan.

 

 

Ditty

 

On the church-tower the magpie sits,

The goose is laid in a skillet:

And he whose heart’s corn snugly fits

Does not out loud have to trill it.

 

Come, dear one, and join the ring,

And dance the floor into shivers:

Don’t jest about the heart’s sharp sting:

For I know best where it quivers.

 

Hoist the canvas, the wind is fine,

When sailing I am in clover:

Each takes his own, so I take mine,

And hard luck if you’re left over.

 

Feel the swell that the good ship bears

From Gothenburg and to China:

He whose friend in his thoughts aye wears

Through hardships will always find her.

 

Birds now sing in the light-green bower,

and leafing branches give cover:

I think of every quiet hour

That I will spend with my lover!

 

Sit you down in the cold snow there,

Your brow you’ll save then from freezing:

And if my angel were less than fair,

I’d find some other more pleasing.