The Brother Avenged

I stood before my master’s board, The skinker’s office plying; The herald-men brought tidings then That my brother was murdered lying.

I followed my lord unto his bed, By his dearest down he laid him; Then my courser out of the stall I led, And with saddle and bit arrayed him.

I sprang upon my courser’s back, With the spur began to goad him; And ere I drew his bridle to, Full fifteen leagues I rode him.

And when I came to the noisy hall Where the Kemps carouse were keeping, O then I saw my mother dear O’er the corse of my brother weeping.

Then I laid an arrow on my good bow, The bow that never deceived me; And straight I shot the King’s Kempions twelve, Of my brother who had bereaved me.

And then to the Ting I rode away, Where the judges twelve were seated; Of six to avenge my brother I begged, And of six protection entreated.

For the third time rode I to the Ting, For deep revenge I lusted; Up stood the liege-man of the King, And at me fiercely thrusted.

Up stood the liege-man of the King, With a furious thrust toward me; And the Judges twelve rose in the Ting, And an outlaw’d man declared me.

Then I laid an arrow on my good bow, And the bow to its utmost bent I; And into the heart of the King’s liege-man The sharp, sharp arrow sent I.

Then away from the Ting amain I sped, And my good steed clomb in hurry; There was nothing for me but to hasten and flee, And myself ’mong the woods to bury.

And hidden for eight long years I lay Amid the woods so lonely; I’d nothing to eat in that dark retreat But grass and green leaves only.

I’d nothing to eat in that dark retreat, Save the grass and leaves I devoured; No bed-fellows crept to the place where I slept, But bears that brooned and roared.

So near at hand was the holy tide Of our Lady of mercies tender; The King of the Swedes his followers leads, And rides to the Church in splendour.

So I laid an arrow on my good bow, As I looked from the gap so narrow; And into the heart of the Swedish King I sent the yard-long arrow.

Now lies on the ground the Swedish King, And the blood from his death-wound showers; So blythe is my breast, though still I must rest Amid the forest bowers.