Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.
Svend Vonved gallop'd along the way;
To fancies dark was his mind a prey:
Riding he enter'd the castle yard
Where stood twelve witches wrinkled and scarr'd:
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.
There stood they all, with spindle and rok, {f:18}--
Each over the shinbone gave him a knock:
Svend turn'd his steed, in fury, round;
The witches he there has hew'd to the ground.
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.
He hew'd the witches limb from limb,
So little mercy they got from him;
His mother came out, and was serv'd the same,
Into fifteen pieces he hackt her frame.
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.
Then in he went to his lonely bower,
There drank he the wine, the wine of power:
His much-lov'd harp he play'd upon
Till the strings were broken, every one.
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.
THE TOURNAMENT.
FROM THE OLD DANISH.
This is one of those Ballads which, from the days of Arild, have been
much sung in Denmark: we find in it the names and bearings of most of
those renowned heroes, who are mentioned separately in other poems.
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