Hellalyle and Hildebrand

She sat in her bower, with eyes of flame, (My sorrow is known to God alone.) Bending over the broidery frame, (And oh there liveth none to whom my sorrow may be told.) And where the red gold ought to shine, She broiders there wi' the silken twine. And where the silken twine should be, She lays the golden broiderie. In they come to the Queen so fair:-- 'Proud HELLA so wildly is broidering there.' The Queen she wrapt her furs around: Strode on till HELLALYLE she found. 'Hearken, HELLA, with speed you sew, But all astray your neeld doth go.' 'Ah well my neeld may go astray, For I am lost in woe for aye.

My father was lord of the land by his sword, And knights of renown were the slaves at his board. My father gave me a glorious guard: Twelve noble knights were my watch and ward. Eleven daily served me well, But oh, I loved the last -- I fell. My true-love's name was HILDEBRAND, And he was Prince of Engelland.† Scarce came to my bower that knight so bold, When all was to my father told. Oh if you heard my father's shout -- "Champions! on with your armour stout! See that your swords and shields be right, HILDEBRAND, he is a lord of might."

They stood at the door with spear and shield: "Up, Lord HILDEBRAND! out and yield!" He kissed me then mine eyes above:-- "Say never my name, thou darling love." Out of the door Lord HILDEBRAND sprang; Around his head the sword he swang. In gore they soon were lying there, My seven brothers with golden hair. My youngest brother was battling near, And O in my heart I held him dear. And so I screamed, "Lord HILDEBRAND, For GOD's dear love now hold thy hand! O let him live -- my youngest brother, He'll bear the tidings to my mother." And, while I spake Lord HILDEBRAND, With eight wounds sunk upon the sand.

My brother bound me by the hair: I hung at the heels of his frantic mare. There was not a stone, there was not a root, But I left it a piece of my shattered foot. There was not a bough we passed that day, But it tore a piece of my bosom away. The deep ice-rivers were red with gore, As over them we and the wild horse tore.

And when to the castle we came anigh, My mother stood in misery. My brother he built a tower strong, Sharp thorns he laid on the floor along. He stript me to my silken sark, He cast me on thorns so keen and stark. And, oh, wherever my hands were thrown The horrible thorns empierced the bone. And, oh, wherever I screaming stood, Their piercing daggers were dyed with blood. My brother wished me in the grave, My mother would sell me for a slave. And soon they sold me for a bell: In Mary's tower they hung it well. The bell rang out, and rang again: My mother's bosom brast in twain.'

Or ever she told of all her teen (My sorrow is known to God alone,) Dead she fell before the Queen. (And oh there liveth none to whom my sorrow may be told.)

† England