Swayne Tveskieg did a man possess,
Sir Thorvald hight;
Though fierce in war, kind acts in peace
Were his delight.
From port to port his vessels fast
Sailed wide around,
And made, where'er they anchor cast,
His name renown'd.
But Thorvald has freed his King.
Prisoners he bought—clothes, liberty,
On them bestowed,
And sent men home from slavery
To their abode.
And many an old man got his boy,
His age's stay;
And many a maid her youth's sole joy,
Her lover gay.
But Thorvald has freed his King.
A brave fight Thorvald loved full dear,
For brave his mood;
But never did he dip his spear
In feeble blood.
He followed Swayne to many a fray
With war-shield bright,
And his mere presence scar'd away
Foul deeds of might.
But Thorvald has freed his King.
They hoist sail on the lofty mast,
It was King Swayne,
He o'er the bluey billows pass'd
With armed train.
His mind to harry Bretland {13a} boiled;
He leapt on shore
And every, every thing recoiled
His might before.
But Thorvald has freed his King.
Yet slept not Bretland's chieftain good;
He speedily
Collected a host in the dark wood
Of cavalry.
And evil through that subtle plan
Befell the Dane;
They were ta'en prisoners every man,
And last King Swayne.
But Thorvald has freed his King.
"Now hear thou prison-foogd! {13b} and pray
My message heed;
Unto the castle take thy way,
Thence Thorvald lead!
Prison and chains become him not,
Whose gallant hand
So many a handsome lad has brought
From slavery's band."
But Thorvald has freed his King.
The man brought this intelligence
To the bower's door,
But Thorvald, with loud vehemence,
"I'll not go," swore.
"What—go, and leave my sovereign here,
In durance sore?
No! Thorvald then ne'er worthy were
To lift shield more."
But Thorvald has freed his King.
What cannot noble souls effect?
Both freedom gain
Through Thorvald's prayer, and the respect
His deeds obtain.
And from that hour unto his grave,
Swayne ever show'd
Towards his youth's friend, so true and brave,
Fit gratitude.
But Thorvald has freed his King.
Swayne Tveskieg sat with kings one tide,
O'er mead and beer,
The cushion soft he stroaked and cried,
"Sit, Thorvald, here.
Thy father ne'er rul'd land like me
And my compeers!
But yarl and nobleman is he
Whose fame thine nears.
For Thorvald has freed his King."