The Danes of Yore

Well we know from saga And from scaldic lore, That heroic warriors Were the Danes of yore. That the noble schildings, And the men they led, Oft for Danish honour Stoutly fought and bled.

What a time for Athelings, What a time for thanes! What a time for yeomen, True devoted Danes! But I'll say with pleasure That, in ancient days, Death did not annihilate All that noble race.

Frederic see, exalted On his father's throne, Sits a splendid monarch, Brighter never shone. Long to him be granted That of Grendel's kin He may check the cruel Cursed deeds of sin.

And that long may flourish Round about the King, They who love gold treasures All around to fling. Lords, the first of heroes, With their trenchant swords; Counsellors held in honour, For their golden words.

To the Lord of angels Praise devout I'll sing, That from out the grave-hill 'Twas my lot to bring Golden dishes, goblets, Things of mighty worth, Which for thousand winters Lay entombed in earth.

That men in gold smithery Cunning, might from them For the grey haired hero Frame a diadem. Under which his grey locks Might all glorious shine, Whilst the sun, bright flaming, Seeks the western brine.

Until, tired of glory, Such as meets it here, Soars the hero's spirit To a higher sphere; Where, with souls united Of departed friends, 'Twill experience glory Such as never ends.