| |
| SHORT of stature, large of limb, | |
| Burly face and russet beard, | |
| All the women stared at him, | |
| When in Iceland he appeared. | |
| “Look!” they said, | 5 |
| With nodding head, | |
| “There goes Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest.” | |
| |
| All the prayers he knew by rote, | |
| He could preach like Chrysostome, | |
| From the Fathers he could quote, | 10 |
| He had even been at Rome. | |
| A learned clerk, | |
| A man of mark, | |
| Was this Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. | |
| |
| He was quarrelsome and loud, | 15 |
| And impatient of control, | |
| Boisterous in the market crowd, | |
| Boisterous at the wassail-bowl, | |
| Everywhere | |
| Would drink and swear, | 20 |
| Swaggering Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. | |
| |
| In his house this malcontent | |
| Could the King no longer bear, | |
| So to Iceland he was sent | |
| To convert the heathen there, | 25 |
| And away | |
| One summer day | |
| Sailed this Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. | |
| |
| There in Iceland, o’er their books | |
| Pored the people day and night, | 30 |
| But he did not like their looks, | |
| Nor the songs they used to write. | |
| “All this rhyme | |
| Is waste of time!” | |
| Grumbled Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. | 35 |
| |
| To the alehouse, where he sat, | |
| Came the Scalds and Saga-men; | |
| Is it to be wondered at | |
| That they quarrelled now and then, | |
| When o’er his beer | 40 |
| Began to leer | |
| Drunken Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest? | |
| |
| All the folk in Altafiord | |
| Boasted of their island grand; | |
| Saying in a single word, | 45 |
| “Iceland is the finest land | |
| That the sun | |
| Doth shine upon!” | |
| Loud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. | |
| |
| And he answered: “What’s the use | 50 |
| Of this bragging up and down, | |
| When three women and one goose | |
| Make a market in your town!” | |
| Every Scald | |
| Satires drawled | 55 |
| On poor Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. | |
| |
| Something worse they did than that; | |
| And what vexed him most of all | |
| Was a figure in shovel hat, | |
| Drawn in charcoal on the wall; | 60 |
| With words that go | |
| Sprawling below, | |
| “This is Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest.” | |
| |
| Hardly knowing what he did, | |
| Then he smote them might and main, | 65 |
| Thorvald Veile and Veterlid | |
| Lay there in the alehouse slain. | |
| “To-day we are gold, | |
| To-morrow mould!” | |
| Muttered Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. | 70 |
| |
| Much in fear of axe and rope, | |
| Back to Norway sailed he then. | |
| “O King Olaf! little hope | |
| Is there of these Iceland men!” | |
| Meekly said, | 75 |
| With bending head, | |
| Pious Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. | |
| |
