How they went hurrying,

How they went scurrying!

In came a troll-wife, her hunger to sate,
Killed she the dogs, roasted them and ate,
One by one the men

Cast in the fire, and then

Greedily devoured, still smelling for more.

How they went hurrying,

How they went scurrying!

From the loft a man doth a spear-shaft launch
In through her back and out through her paunch;
Shrieking and quaking,

The spear-shaft shaking,

Bellowing the troll rushed out into the forest.

How they go hurrying,
How they go scurrying!

Three men on a single pair of ski,

Rushing past village, and mountain, and tree,

Stormy skies and clear,

And the Yule-tide near,

Norway lies below them dotted with its lights.

How they go hurrying,

How they go scurrying!

"Here is your country, you now are secure; Greet King Olaf, for him 't is sure

That above all men

Would I choose for friend,

To him with my greetings give this silver dish."

How they go hurrying,

How they go scurrying!

Under his gold helm streams his hair,
In the fanning wind, as away he doth fare,
And his warrior-height

Towers in sight

Above the birches on the grassy mountain-slope.

SECOND SONG

AT THE WINTER-THING

YEAR upon year apace had sped
Since that ski-journey up north;
The fugitives were forgotten,
And the pursuing pack.

Other things weighed on men's minds:
Dearth and the lifting of cattle,
Depression wherever twain met,
At every fireside silence.

The old trees shook in the storm,

Winter ruled o'er the plain,
The peasants' corn in the fields
Was beaten down by the frost.
Laden with snow was the spruce,
But the birch shook the burden off.
Bent was the underbrush,

And frozen stiff with the cold.
Sated was winter, and harkened
For signs of the storms to come,
Should they bring with them rain,
Or a message warm from the south.
Over the gasping village

The frost-king heavily brooded,
Crept to the bonder's dwelling,
Staring sleepily in.

Over the gloomy foothills
The dark clouds heavily lowered,
Hung together and whispered
Their eternal message of terror.

Up from the west they came rolling
Over the forests of Iamtland;
White behind them lay Norway
Gleaming with snow-clad peaks.

'T was there that Olaf the Holy
The cross to the light uplifted;
Thor dropped his hammer, and Odin
Tottered and fell in the night.

Rumors were rife. In Iamtland
Often they found their way
To the hearing of gentle maidens
And of deep-thinking men;
Filling their dreams with omens,
Warning them in the daytime,
Glimmering like snow in sunlight
Before their uncertain gaze.

In the Iamtlanders' low-lying settlement,

There lay on the edge of the forest
The house of the heathen priest,
Snug and warm for the wanderer.
Trand was his name, one daughter

Alone he possessed, but no son,
Nor was he deeply regretful

When blithe she passed on his way.
Old sat Trand on the settle,

Drinking far into the night,

Talking with trustworthy boon companions

Of the deeds of their youth.

Also he talked with travellers,
Homeward faring from westward,
Asked about Olaf Digre,

And of his mighty deeds.

Heard how he cast down temples,

And smashed their idols to fragments,

How worms crawled out of the rotten wood,
Adders, and mice, and the like. . . .
The thrall stood pale at the doorway,
Dared not the horn replenish,
Terrified picturing Odin, who
Noseless sat there and slept.

Drunkenly Trand thumped the table:

"Lies are these tales and witchcraft-work!

Tallow-face, fetch us the liquor,

Here it grows fearfully cold."

Further questions he asked,

Pondering o'er the replies,
Pounded the table and swore:

"Loki has broken his bonds!"

Then when the drink overcame him,
And down on the settle he dropped,