Читать книгу: «The Verner Raven, The Count of Vendel's Daughter, and Other Ballads», страница 4

 
I’ll ne’er become another’s spouse,
   But in religion I will die.
 
 
But first to all the country side
   I will declare my bosom’s grief;
I find, the more my grief I hide,
   The less, the less, is my relief.
 

THE CRUEL MOTHER-IN-LAW

 
From his home and his country Sir Volmor should fare,
His wife he commends to his mother’s best care.
 
 
Proud Lyborg she sang, as the dancers she watched,
Behind stood Dame Ingeborg, malice she hatched.
 
 
“To live to the Fall if the luck I enjoy
Fair lady, thy beautiful voice I’ll destroy.”
 
 
Proud Lyborg’s fair maidens upon the floor sprang,
And all through the evening she unto them sang.
 
 
But alack two short summer days scarcely had pass’d,
When in desperate sickness proud Lyborg lay fast.
 
 
Proud Lyborg fell sick, and lay stretched on her bed,
Then backwards and forwards Dame Ingeborg sped.
 
 
“Now hear me, Dame Ingeborg, dear mother mine,
Do bring me, I pray, either water or wine.”
 
 
“The water is frozen, and frozen the wine,
And frozen the tap in each barrel of mine.
 
 
“The door it is locked, and the keys are away,
But where, daughter dear, by the Saints I can’t say.”
 
 
“If I can nor water nor wine from thee win,
Then open the door that the dew may rush in.
 
 
“Cause the door to the North to be wide open set,
Then my feverish frame cool refreshment shall get.”
 
 
“The door to the South I’ll have straightway undone,
That the hot sun may flash in thy visage upon.”
 
 
“O would there were one that for sweet pity’s sake,
To my mother a message in secret would take.”
 
 
Then answer’d proud Lyborg’s own little foot-boy:
“Your message in secret I’ll carry with joy.”
 
 
That they were alone they with confidence thought;
Dame Ingeborg stood nigh, and every word caught.
 
 
The lad he upsprang on his courser so high,
He galloped as fast as the wingèd birds fly.
 
 
In, in came the lad, in a kirtle red drest:
“Your daughter, Dame Lyborg, in death will soon rest.
 
 
“She bids you to come with all possible quickness,
To live through this night she can’t hope from her sickness.”
 
 
Straight unto her servants proud Mettelil says:
“My horses go fetch from the meads where they graze.”
 
 
The horses they galloped, the chariot wheels turned,
Throughout the long day whilst the summer heat burned.
 
 
The midsummer’s sun with such fury it glows
Proud Lyborg swoons ’neath it in terrible throes.
 
 
A purse takes Dame Ingeborg fraught with gold treasure,
And she speeds to the hall, her heart bounding with pleasure.
 
 
“Whosoever will gold and will bounty derive,
Let him help me to bury proud Lyborg alive.”
 
 
Soon as she of the gold distribution had made,
Below the black earth the fair lily they laid.
 
 
To the gate of the castle proud Mettelil came,
Dame Ingeborg stood there, and leaned on the same.