by Níels Jónsson skálda
Two rímur composed by Níels Jónsson skálda, published in Akureyri in 1858 as an appendix to his Rímur af Flóres og Blanzeflúr. This is a comic verse-novella in the fabliaux tradition — a tale of a jealous old Hamburg merchant, his young wife, and the clever clerk Freyvald, drawn from a Danish source.
The story belongs to a widespread European tale-type: the old husband outwitted by the young wife and her lover through an elaborate bed-trick. The poet handles the material with wit, warmth, and a light moral touch, never condemning the lovers. The mansöngvar are characteristically self-deprecating — Níels presents himself as a humble verse-maker in an enlightened age.
This is the first known English translation of this work. Translated from the Old/Middle Icelandic by the New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026.
Ríma I
Though I find but one path of learning, it leads to the joy of verse —
I let the lilies of the glowing stream water memory's ground.
Wise women know how to name the skillful in the course of glory's learning —
a small spring upon the launching-blocks, well fitted for the way.
I set myself to trust the narrow ferry of blindwood's burden onward —
but to pin my peace on any nail, I cannot bring myself.
It strains in danger's shadow and has no life —
though I might drive the ship of verse across the sea of sorrow's spray.
A small loss, it seems to me — a broken vessel of the palm —
though I may journey through the wreck, the cargo is not precious.
For to the sounding fjord's shore I carry this time
clay and empty, weightless wares — if I find landfall there.
Though now a name from the craven be offered, and some greater blame —
it is good enough in oblivion's pool, buried to be consumed.
It would not be wise to improve the planks of verse —
the guardian of blades in the lowland knows what now stands to be done.
I choose to declare this verse-hound's tale — a quacking thing carried forth —
a story drawn from the Danish, curious and short.
Though many-spliced glory may not avail — be it truth or lie —
this is the beginning:
I name a Hamburg man of note — his name was Jens Madson,
a merchant. And the matter of this verse comes from the necklace's joy.
He made his gold grow fiercely — a frost of bodily care —
he was skilled enough at hoarding wealth, but wretched at finding a wife.
Few of womankind would give him faith or dowry —
seldom did he have a sweetheart longer than the stroke of a clock.
So his life went on — the women, those slender reed-bearers of rings —
none would warm to him, though he offered three shillings and more.
Drawing joy from stretching coins, the wretch endured in pity —
the grief-hound gathered silver clasps, forever and alone.
Pleasure fades — the man grows old — his hair turns wool-white.
Then some old fellow matched him with a maiden, for his money.
Unwilling, she fulfilled her father's decree —
she never wished to have the man, so thoroughly unpleasant was he.
Yet he prized the young jewel beyond all measure —
like a house-dog's whimper, though love would scarcely come.
Little showed that mild-tempered man of love's linen arrow —
who never learned to love until old age had quenched his strength.
The swelling anguish of the woman beat against her young breast —
the trial cut no less sharp than the dressed linden tree expected.
All the household saw the woman's silenced sorrow —
he shared nothing with the fair one, but lurked coldly in the shadows.
At all hours the old fool suspected — as good so often falters —
that everyone intended to plant horns upon his bald head.
In his mean jealousy, with sagging cheeks, he never tested her word —
but watched his wife like a prisoner, and guarded her more closely than a thief.
Pride that demanded a chieftain's manners — he in his fine hall
had gathered around him from all quarters a company of young men.
A purpose followed this game of courtesy —
he meant to test the woman's eye, to read what lay within.
The merchant set this trap for long — that much was sure —
but what the jewel observed of his methods, he knew least of all.
The woman, denied all delight and suffering such a ban on joy —
she would as soon not live, yet neither thought to yield to any man.
The wife concealed all mirth and gladness, all bitterness and despair —
little by little, every feeling of love was squeezed from her.
No child came either — joy stood far off —
and so passed, without tenderness, three or four years.
What stirred among the men in that time, here is not told —
but the tale-book gives account of it, late though it comes.
The old man, whose jealousy tormented the ring-bearer,
hired a young man better than others — one called Freyvald.
Slender, courteous, and glad — keen, yet unassuming —
a good man, well-formed, wise, and versatile.
He lacked no diligence in writing and in reckoning sharp accounts —
his hand was skilled in the pen-arts, and the old man was well pleased.
The counting fool kept at his reckoning — he toiled like an ant —
wearied under Mammon's cross, he began to lose his sight.
The keeper of wealth arranged his household so
that only a thin partition divided the writing-room from the kitchen.
He had kept it so longer than two years, the old man —
a window in the wall, the better to peer into the kitchen.
Freyvald sat there always within — his work gave him life —
while the merchant was away in the shop, and the wife was in the kitchen.
The rich rose of jewels gazed at the ruddy pen-man —
the fellow too caught sight, with sidelong eye, of how the woman fared.
The blossom-hued woman, with double art, would sometimes glance his way —
the anguish-bitten lady, at first, bitterly grieved.
She found soon enough the trail of fire's seeping — fair within a little while —
that the good man's warmth turned toward her, like a flame against a dam.
She held her hidden grief in silence and let it rest.
It is told that the woman, when few were about one day,
spoke to him through the window — she dared not enter —
for the modest woman, seized with fear, was ever sore-stricken.
Her heart was not light. She made her plea:
she asked him for an ink-pen and a tiny scrap of paper.
She received them and hastily scratched out a few words —
then at once she handed the note to the young man, blushing, the jewel-bearer.
He looked at the woman freely and without guilt — and when the drinking-hour passed,
stirring woke warmth in his blood, and she spoke to him thus:
"Though scarcely worth an effort that any man might esteem —
I thank you for your courtesy and kindness, young sir."
"Use your quick and ready conduct, I beg you warmly —
and never put me on my guard as you might intend."
"You might think what this could cost, if it were known to all —
I should rather wish for such things in far humbler fashion."
"But I dare not — though my joy it costs me — cross the master's favour,
and your fortune surely hangs in the balance. Do you not know his temper?"
The sharp-witted man quickly studied her lines and weighed each word —
then he wrote a note and sent it to the woman, and she read it thus:
"Never shall I let my heart bring fear — foolish are such things —
and yet I understand your good counsel, and thank you most dutifully."
"I can scarcely bear this stiff yoke — then I must avoid ill deeds —
the old bird may think whatever he will about it."
"Little of my fortune lies in his mouth —
and there is room enough for your words, when time allows."
"If hatred's fury should befall him, I believe it may
be easier to bid farewell than to return to the shop and him."
Little mockery, though the fair one nourished it — the answer quickly read —
they parted on this written converse, swiftly this time.
After that, time dragged on long — nothing came to pass.
The gentle-browed one avoided the young man, yet found it hard.
Yet nearness lent its aid — alike for man and maiden —
slowly in both their breasts, a light of tenderness quickened.
The woman's constrained lot became torment — frozen blood thawed.
What it was to love a man, she had not known before.
Against the merchant's close watch, man and maiden waited —
they could barely, and still less dared, exchange a word.
Wife and young man held to their tears — for warm was their blood —
a year or longer passed this way, and all remained the same.
Both began to bend — waiting and longing took their toll —
love and yearning drove them on. Someone must think of a plan.
When none of the merchant's servants noticed in the house,
the artful woman slipped away, secretly, to a garden alone.
No armed guard followed the woman — the venture seemed perilous —
but the ring-bearer wished to test whether it would be observed.
Though the sheltered woman did not sleep, she laid out bedding and a pillow
beneath the living linden trunk and settled everything there.
She went back to the house, scarcely delaying — the sure one, in haste —
and marvelled that no one had inquired about it.
Bedtime came at the late spinning-hour.
The old man, with gentle manner, soon shuffled toward the bed.
The woman went to undress — the sheet was spread.
Both lay down. The woman knew. The man knew nothing.
The spent gifts of glory's power find no spring beside me —
exhausted, I end this verse here. I must stop for this time.
Ríma II
Often are folk placed low — that much is long proved true.
The experienced man has much to remember; many such examples will be found.
I was steering my keel-ship with weary strength —
the worn one reached the cape of silence, though for little gain.
Again may I push off at once upon blindwood's shore
and take up now — though it drain my strength — the bargain of the rowing-way.
Though I scarcely understand, experience makes me believe at last
that across the bloodless bay, it is worse to sail than row.
But — to what end hoist the sail on the crane's mast?
The wind blows one way or another; neither speeds the journey.
Better it were to have seen with whole intent
the ending in the beginning, than to lament this thing and that.
So I say: though I have in this southern vessel
tried more to shape than to snatch, I claim not to be matchless.
I count not on the journey turning to profit —
the planks are bored through, the wares damp and shamed.
That is to say, in other words, the substance of this verse:
in place of pleasant pastime, it curdles for those who listen.
I hardly expect the favour of clever readers —
though images of glory come, they will marvel at the ill tidings.
When one must suffer harsh and ill treatment from another,
one is driven to seek worse remedies, straying from the paths of one's own deeds.
Schemes of honour, laid against conscience,
succeed well and win praise — far more than virtuous wisdom.
But let those who view my verse think it fair,
though the wicked man's lot would be to work most toward his own ruin.
Especially when nothing else comes of it but this:
that one must surrender his dominion, and the other's suffering is relieved.
It seems to me true, when folk's behaviours are fully examined,
that various powers are given to each — and cunning avenges tyranny.
However it may now go, upon the blind man's path —
I trusted the heavy keel of silence and pushed it from the harbour.
I drew the leaking blindwood boat to the channel of fortune —
where man and wife were situated, though little worthy thought came from either.
The merry wife dared to venture such boldness —
to broach various subjects — though much went against the old man's grain.
At last the wife ventured this careful question:
"Is this Freyvald to remain here as your boarder henceforth?"
"What is that to you?" the merchant asked.
But the thorn-voiced woman said: "The fellow ought to be driven out, if I had any say in it."
"Though I could have dismissed the lad within a set time,"
the old man thought carefully — he knew that word would rule him at home.
The woman knew that the merchant suspected her —
and what the giver of gold laid upon her as suspicion, the trial bore out in full.
"I am accustomed," he said, "to directing my household.
Trickery or deceit from my deeds — I will hardly act on your counsel."
"Do as you think proper," said the woman.
"With some, you are more trusting than you are steadfast at other times."
"It is beyond me that he would practise any low cunning,"
the merchant answered with fierce conviction — "I cannot dismiss him."
The woman said: "Yet of his conduct, this much cannot be denied —
if he steals and is not seen, or no witness is found."
"And it would not be the worst if I should tell you
many things of how his virtue lived and died — that serves you best."
"But as for what you think I am worth to you — that I already knew.
And perhaps the shop is dearer to you, since it is larger."
Heavy at heart was the wife, and she told him:
"If I had my freedom, I would bid farewell to you both."
The merchant, against his custom, turned to his wife and said:
"What is the matter — what is this about? What does this speech mean?"
"I am not mistaken — something is going on with you.
Tell me the truth, I beg you — has he set his heart on you?"
"If this pains you at all," the woman said,
"little here is on oath — though beside me it may pass unseen."
"But had you stood behind him in full view,
when he stood crouching on his knees out here beneath the linden tree —"
"There I came home — so much I know — my leave was given.
Something you would have seen and heard, which would have given you pause."
At first a chill came over the old man at this.
He said: "I hear he is a lecher. How then should it go between you?"
The woman said: "I came away unscathed, without a doubt —
but I had to let him come there, while it suited you best to sleep."
"How did you manage this," the merchant asked,
"so that he got that certain hope? Now I am truly astounded!"
"I made it seem I would arrange a trick," said the linden-lady,
"that you would fall into heavy sleep from the drink — easy enough to provide."
"I mentioned it now, since nothing else would do."
The woman now with cunning pressed on, and the merchant believed her and asked further:
"Have you never become aware of his intention before?"
She answered: "Yes! But to do you a service, I thought to lay a trap for the catch."
"Now you have your proof — just as I first advised.
So that I may help you further in this — take my counsel once."
"Put on my nightclothes — I can advise you well —
then go yourself and see: the bedding and pillow shall be lying there."
"Best, I think, this trick would work," said the jewel-woman,
"if you were in your hiding place before he arrives."
The merchant yielded to his wife's counsel in his stubborn folly
and meant to leap to his feet at once — but the woman held him back.
"You shall wait a third of the night," the woman said,
"longer than a short clock-hour — do not linger there, for the air is cold."
"If he comes, learn his intention — and stay still.
I care not if he stumbles and falls — and you greet the fellow with your staff."
"If he does not come, return home to your bed.
But hold on to the bedding and the pillow — leave them in the front door."
"So I can say that I myself carried them in.
He set up this tryst with me — and himself wasted the opportunity."
"Should it go as I can scarce believe," the woman said,
"no doubt this would succeed, if it is tried a second time."
The merchant resolved as she said — the woman was shrewd.
He lay restless through the hours, counting every stroke of the clock.
The hour came. He leaped to his feet as fast as he could.
The jewel-woman lay behind him bare — he struggled into her nightclothes.
He crept out and, worn, lay down beneath the linden tree —
there he lay in the still frost, long upon the bedding and the pillow.
He endured great patience there until at last
the warmth of his body faded, and he grew heartily sick of it.
None should pay heed to the guesses of those
who think Freyvald had it warmer and tried nothing new.
The merchant hears — when he is frost-bitten and wretched —
someone creeping softly through the garden, stealing in where he must go.
He grew glad at this, for the scheme seemed to be working.
He saw that the woman had not deceived him. He recognised Freyvald standing near.
A moment there stood and gaped the master of the house.
"So — you are lurking here, my fine fellow!" he spoke at last.
"You have thought you would not be wanted here —
and would earn your reward, if you knew the path to love's instruction."
"You must be a great fool among fools,
if you truly take my wife's advances for earnest."
"It would serve far better if I woke the merchant
and let him see the pick of women so well attended."
"Especially since I know that worthy men of rank
care little for the likes of you — worthless in your thin deeds."
"For five full winters I have been here —
I have dug out my clothes — my wages are spent — and three crowns is all I have earned."
"I shall make our meeting widely known at first light —
and henceforth, for your honour's sake — take that for your schemes!"
When the ring-bearer had finished speaking,
he walked briskly up to the person and delivered blows on both cheeks.
The merchant was silent. So it went between them. Then home he went —
he hurried and was humbled — he carried back the bedding and the pillow.
I cannot here relate how the woman
spread herself beside the warrior-tree and warmed him as gently as she could.
At first the wife would not speak to him.
The worn fellow asked for news — after his teeth had stopped chattering.
Overjoyed, the old wreck warmed himself inside.
The cold lessened, and the jaw-cramps — the man could scarcely believe this kindness.
"Did Freyvald come?" the woman asked.
The merchant answered: "I will explain it all to you — the lad did indeed come there."
"Your words have proved true to me — I heard and found it so.
Though the errand turned out to be something else, and his eye's aim was hidden from you."
"A clever trick against a slow hook you can carry."
The woman asked, the white-linen one: "What more do you say of this?"
"I could not envy you his attentions —
those which the thunderer of blades showed me. Thus the merchant told his wife."
"I have sometimes endured words half-unpleasant —
but never abuse so powerful, for which complaint avails little."
Freyvald's every word and deed he told her — though it startled the woman greatly —
and now he added further:
"From his conduct I can draw full certainty
that someone has lied to him, and anger has flown into him since."
"He meant to avenge his grievance — and surely,
if I accept nothing from him, there is no telling what he might attempt."
"This bewilders me," said the wife, "and I cannot answer.
Yet I think it wiser to act quickly about something here."
"He may yet see you true, though he be slow to show it —
though he pretended to care about himself, to catch me in this net."
"That you keep him longer I do not oppose —
so long as you use his work — you will not blame me for it now."
"To fully repay his insolence, I am slow to embrace —
but the angry old man need not fear that he will turn on me in this way."
"But from now on, take such good care of his situation
that he can do me little harm — more than that I will not say to you."
He said: "Of my part, this much at least I say:
I cannot lose Freyvald — I know no one his equal."
"But never again shall I dare to fail,
ignoring your words and wishes, until death shall part us."
"It grieves me how often my words have caused you pain.
Forget all my suspicions — you may know them all forgiven."
Upon that the merchant kissed his wife, his darling.
Sweet and peaceful beside the golden woman, he fell asleep with those words on his lips.
Early in the morning the merchant came to his senses.
He called Freyvald into the shop, and spoke to him smiling:
"I find it is time I took the opportunity
to settle the account you are owed — let it be cleared by my hand."
With fine ceremony and fair speech he endured the formality —
he poured a drink and counted out the sum in full payment.
Freyvald thanked him for his generosity —
he bowed deeply with warm gratitude. Then the merchant said:
"May fortune's light burn brightly beside you.
But a request shall follow my bidding — I have my suspicions about your conduct."
"From now on I bind you with two hands of iron, my friend.
If fortune softens your nature, let my wife enjoy it too."
"Though you have given her cause for blame — perhaps falsely —
I will say little more. The minds of women are many-sided."
"I had thought she had treated you as she ought.
She told me all in good faith — and I should pay you for your trouble."
"Yet I find it not fitting to condemn your deeds —
so say nothing of your meeting to anyone — swear it to me with a clean oath."
"Compliance," said the young man of sleep-street,
"too little of it may be said from me — I would not refuse you this request."
For those reasons, in untold matters and solemn devotion,
the merchant spoke fair words, and Freyvald kept his silence regarding the rest.
The nail of friendship thus sworn, they endured it —
with an oath of fearsome power they swore, and with that they parted.
The merchant went away and appeared again sooner than expected.
He led the leading men of the whole town home to a fine council.
A will was drawn up then, signed by the leading men,
and delivered to the wife — no worthless jewel was she!
The meeting ended, and from that time all went better.
The merchant played with his ring, content — and Freyvald was obliging to the old man.
Contentment was ever new and young with the merchant.
Between the woman and the other, little stood — yet all passed with grace and skill.
He even sometimes arranged things — for it served his heart —
in contest with the giver of finger-snow, that Freyvald should be in the woman's way.
Eternally this pleased the thorn-ground woman.
The merchant liked it as before, now that he was wise.
After this, six or seven years passed in this way.
At last the old man departed — and the woman fell heir to the fortune he left behind.
What befell after that, I have not time to tell.
If the reader pays attention, he may guess how it went.
The name of the humble poet of this verse
is drawn from the fear of men. Is it not best for him now to be silent?
I pay the coals of the keel-pillar's hull and planks —
I sell the hidden cold. To my fellows the recited tale is shared.
Colophon
Rímur af Freyvald og kaupmanni Jens (The Rímur of Freyvald and the Merchant Jens), composed by Níels Jónsson skálda. Published in Akureyri, 1858, as an appendix to his Rímur af Flóres og Blanzeflúr.
Two rímur, 177 stanzas. A comic verse-novella in the fabliaux tradition — the tale of a jealous Hamburg merchant, his unwilling young wife, and the clever clerk Freyvald. Drawn from a Danish source, the poem belongs to the widespread European story-type of the old husband outwitted by a bed-trick. The wife engineers an elaborate scheme in which the merchant, dressed in her nightclothes, lies in wait under a linden tree — only to be berated and struck by Freyvald, who mistakes him (or pretends to) for the merchant's wife making advances. The humiliated merchant, believing his wife's story entirely, draws up a will in her favour, trusts Freyvald implicitly, and the lovers enjoy six or seven years together before the old man's death leaves the wife rich and free.
The poet conceals his name in stanza 108 of Ríma II — "drawn from the fear of men" (ótta bragna) — a characteristic rímur riddling signature.
Meter: Ríma I — Tvískothend/frumhend ferskeytt (four-line stanzas with alternating rhyme). Ríma II — three-line stanzas with end-rhyme.
This is the first known English translation of this work. Translated from Old/Middle Icelandic by the New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026. The OCR source contains numerous artifacts from the 1858 Akureyri printing; damaged readings have been reconstructed from context where possible.
Compiled and formatted for the Good Work Library by the New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026.
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Source Text: Rímur af Freyvald og kaupmanni Jens
Old/Middle Icelandic source text from the 1858 Akureyri edition by Níels Jónsson skálda, digitised from Internet Archive (RimurafFloresogB). OCR artifacts preserved as found; line-breaks from the narrow printed columns have been regularised. Presented here for reference, study, and verification alongside the English translation above.
1. Ríma
-
Eítt þó stræti fræða finni, fær til óðar glaums,
vökva læt jeg lóðins minni liljur glóða-straums. -
Niptir kunna nefna svinnar, í námi hróðrar fángs:
austra hlunna lítinn linna, lagaðan vel til gángs. -
Ferju mjóa blindviðs bagla, býst jeg treysta á framt;
hnoða ró á neinum nagla, nenni eg ekki samt. -
Hálast er í hættu skugga, hefir engin fjör,
sóns um ver þó sirpu-mugga, suðra spreyngi knör. -
Litlri sóun lízt mér spái, lóvars brostið fley;
hrakníngs þó jeg ferðir fái, farmur er kostbær ei. -
Þvi að óma fjarðar fjöru, flytjeg þetta sinn,
leir og tóma létta vöru, lending ef þar finn. -
Nú þó bjóðist nafn af flóni, og nokkuð meira last,
nóg er hún góð í gleymsku-lóni, grafin að fortærast. -
Mun ei ráð, að bríkum banda, betri gjöri á skil,
hjals í láði hirðir branda, hvað nú stendur til. -
Kýs eg skýri kveðlíngs greyið, kvaks um vegu flutt,
æfintýr úr dönsku dregið, dáskrítið og stutt. -
Margfleizaða mærð þó týgi, má ei sjá þar við,
sjálft hvort það er satt eða lýgi; svona er upphafið: -
Hamborgara hróður nefni, hét sá Madson Jens,
kaupmann var; en kveðlíngs efni, kömur af njóti mens. -
Fíngra hélu frekt lét dafna, frosti búksorgar;
optast vel gekk auð að safna, enílla giptíngar. -
Vildi honum fátt af vífakyni, veita trú nö mund;
skjaldan átti hann skipta-vini, skömur en klukkustund. -
Fór svo lengi fram hans æfi, fljóðin hrínga reyr,
þýddust engin, þótt hann gæfi þrjá skildínga og meir. -
Aura teygir af dró gaman, aumkvaði mengið þraut;
hryggjar-greyið sífeldt saman, silfurspengja hlaut. -
Yndi seinkar, segg á tranti, sáust ullhvít hár;
honum þá einhver gamall ganti, gipti mey til fjár. -
Nauðug fyllti foldin veiga, föðurs hlýónis lög;
karlinn vildi hún aldrei eiga, óviðfeldinn mjög. -
Hann þó ofur-mikils metur, mens hið únga láð,
nær sem stofu-tíkar tetur, trautt þó kæmi fjáð. -
Lítið bærði hinn lyndis kyrri, lina kærleiks-ör,
sem aldrei lærði að elska fyrri, enn ellin svæfði fjör. -
Ángurs kaunin svanna svella, sveif á únglíngs brjóst;
skarst ei raunin skár, enn þella, skrúða, fyrr við bjóst. -
Svannans þegi sorgar-efni, sá þá fólkið allt;
deildi hann ei á dúka-gefni, en dillaði í laumi kaldt. -
Allar stundir grunaði ganta, gott er títt af-sver,
að hver einn mundi hyggja að planta, horn í skalla sér. -
Heimlæðan með hrakinn vánga, hör í tók ei próf;
en vaktaði svanna sem einn fánga, og sigtaði meir enn þjóf. -
Dramb, sem krafði að höfðíngs-háttum, hann í glæstum sal,
með sér hafði úr ýmsum áttum, ýngismanna-val. -
Þessu spili, þægðar-anna, þánki fylgdi með;
hann ætlaði til að augað svanna, innra skildi göð. -
Fleygir brands það forsjár-efni, feil sló lengi víst,
en meðferð hans, hvað mens á göfni, merkti, vissi hann síst. -
Seyma hildi særíng geldur, svoddan yndis bann,
lifa vildi ei hún, auk heldur, hyggði að þýðast mann. -
Vífið faldi glens og gaman, gremju og örvæntíng;
úr henni kvaldist öll smásaman, ástar-tilfinning. -
Áfkvæmið varð ekkért heldur, yndi fjærri stár;
þannig liðu, er þægð ei veldur, þrjú eða fjögur ár. -
Hvað þar bragna hefir verið, hér ei til er greint;
en þó sagnar-um gat-kverið, á þeim tíma seint. -
Karlsköpnan, er hríngþöll hrelldri, hót sín geðjast löt;
ýngismann fékk öðrum heldri, einn sem Freyvald hét. -
Korða grennir, kurteis, glaður, kænn, en fáskiptinn,
var góðmenni, vel skapaður, vitur, fjölbreytinn. -
Skorti ei nenníng skrifa og reikna, skarpan bauga við;
höndin penna-listum leikna, lappaði karlskarnið. -
Reikníng stundar raunar tossi — riðaði maura þjón —
mæddur undir mammons krossi, missa tók af sjón. -
Hirðir bifs — svo hagaði funa, heima í ranni til,
að kamers skrifs og kokkstofuna, króaði sundur þil. -
Elldri var hann, enn tvæ-vetur, átti karlskarnið,
glugga þar, á gat svo betur, gægzt í kokkhúsið. -
Freyvald þar sat einatt inni — iðið færði líf —,
þá karlinn var í krámbúðinni, en kokkstofunni víf. -
Starði ríka rósin bauga, á rjóðan penna-meið;
seggur líka sá hornauga, svanna hvernig leið. -
Blóma-lit með bragti tvistu, brá því stundum hann;
ángurbitið fljóð í fyrstu, freklega aumkva vann. -
Fann og slóðin funa síkja — fögur innan skamms —,
að henni góðu vildi vikja, viður loga damms. -
Yfir lágt með leyndum trega, lét því svanninn þar.
Frá er sagt, að fljóðið, þegar, fámennt eitt sinn var. -
Talaði við hann glugga gögnum, gánga þorði ei inn;
því auðgrund siðug, ótta megnum, æ var sárbitin. -
Ei var henni hýrt í geði; hún þá bendíng við,
blekugan penna bað sér löði, og blaðkorn dálítið. -
Hún fékk það og hripa gáði, hör á fáein orð,
rötta í stað svo rekk að náði, roðnuð bauga-skorð. -
Leit ósekur frítt við fljóði, fram þegar drukkstund leið,
hræríng vekur hals í blóði, hjal á þessa leið: -
„Varla bót þó vinna sprakka, virða megi neinn,
kurteis hót og þægðir þakka, þér, hinn úngi sveinn!" -
„Brúkaðu talda breytni snara, bið eg af alúð þig,
fremur aldrei við þau vara, vildir gjöra mig." -
„Þenkja mættir þú hvað veldur, þör ef væri hollt,
slíks eg ætti að óska heldur, ekki nær svo stolt." -
„En mör er ei, mín þó gjaldir, gleði, gunstinn hússbóndans,
og lukka þín er víst í veði; veiztu ei géðslag hans?" -
Skarpsinnaður skjótt röð kanna, skrifið og taldi mas;
reit hann blað, og sendi svanna, sem hún þannig las: -
„Aldrei vil jeg hug minn hræði, heimslegt slíkt aðskast,
þar hjá skil eg þín heilræði, og þakka skyldugast." -
„Oki stinnu varla veld eg, verk þá forðast íll;
karlfuglin má hér um held eg, hugsa það það vill." -
„Lítill partur lukku minnar, liggur hans í mund;
og ránkar spart til ræðu þinnar, rúm þegar líður stund." -
„Honum ef bistist heiptar-voma, held eg verða kann,
lengur síst að kveðja, enn koma, krámbúðina og hann." -
Lítið spaug þó auðgrund ali, andsvör snögglesin,
skildu þau að skráðu hjali, skjótt í þetta sinn. -
Þaðan af lengi treindist tíðin, til svo bar ei neitt;
forðaðist drenginn falda-blíðin, fékk þó örðugt veitt. -
Samveran nam lið til leggja — líkt fyrir hal og drós —
smámsaman í brjóstum beggja, blíðu-kvikna-ljós. -
Kvenndis fara kjör að banni, klökknar storknað blóð,
ei hvað var að unna manni, áður vissi fljóð. -
Fyrir umsátrum færis bíður, fleygir bauga og snót;
varla gátu, voguðu síður, við að talast hót. -
Viðhöldt tári víf og drengur — varmt því höfðu blóð —
leið svo árið eða lengur, allt við sama stóð. -
Nokkuð beygja bæði tekur, bið og löngun tjáð,
ást og þreyíng eptir rekur, einhver hugsa ráð. -
Þegar í ranni þess ei gáði, þjóna kaupmanns neinn,
lista svanni laumast náði, leynt í trjágarð einn. -
Bör ei fleina fylgdi svanna, ferðin þókti hætt;
hitt vill reyna hrínga nanna, hvort þess yrði gætt. -
Báls þó hlés þar sif ei sofni, sæng og kodda let,
linditrés hjá lífgum stofni, lagaði þar sem let. -
Gékk að ranni, trauðt við tafði, tróðan baugs með hast,
undrast vann, að enginn hafði, um það forvitnast. -
Tæk að hátta tíð kom rötta, tvinna-seinna-bil;
karlinn bráðt með blíðu slötta, bograði sængur til. -
Fljóð af klæðum fara nennir, fyrir var lak breiðt;
lögðust bæði, kvenndi könnir, karl ei vissi neitt. -
Rotin gæði mærðar mátta, mér hjá spretta finn;
þrotin kvæði hér eg hátta, hlýt í þetta sinn.
2. Ríma
-
Opt eru staddir lýðir lítt það lengi sannast;
reyndur hefir margs að minnast, munu þess víða dæmi finnast. -
Var eg að stýra kuggi kjalars kröptum bognum;
náði lúinn nesi þagnar, náða til þó skammra gagnar. -
Aptur má jeg stauta strax á starblinds viði,
og taka nú, þó armstyrk eyði, ofan í kaupið róðrar-leiði. -
Lítt þó skiljist, lætur reyndin loks mig trúa,
að austra knör um ódreyrs flóa, á sð verra að sigla enn róa. -
En — til hvers er að tylla upp voð á trönu suðra?
heldur byr í eina enn aðra, átt, ei næst til ferða hraðra. -
Hentara væri, að hafa séð með heilli rænu,
endirinn í upphafinu, en yfir klaga þessu og hinu. -
Sö eg, að hef eg samt í þenna suðra nökkva,
framar reynt að hnoða enn hnykkja, heiti eg ekki maki gikkja. -
Tel eg ei upp á til ábata takist ferðin;
gegnnum sundur boruð borðin, blaut og skömmd ær varan orðin. -
Það er, að tjá með öðrum orðum efnið ljóða:
Í stað fyrir dægra-styttíng blíða, storknar þeim, er á vill hlýða. -
Vænist eg þess lítt tillygdar lesara greindum,
fyrir þó komi mærðar myndum, mun hann dást að illtíðindum. -
Þegar hart og íllt af öðrum einn má líða, svo
verður að leita verri ráða, villtar af stigum eigin dáða. -
Sóma-ráð og samin á móti samvizkunni,
lukkast vel og lof ávinna, lángtum stærra enn dygðug svinna. -
En billegt þikja brögnum wá þeim brag minn skoða,
þó væru kjör hins vondhjartaða, að vinna mest til eigin skaða. -
Auk heldur þá ekkört gjörist utan þetta,
að drottnun verður hann að hætta, og hinn fær sína líðun bætta. -
Finnst mör satt, þá fullvel skoðast fólks athafnir,
ýmsir kraptar eru því gefnir; á ofríkinu kænskan hefnir. -
Hvernin sem að tekst nú til, á tvíblinds rastir,
þulins kuggi þunds í trausti, þagnar bryndi eg fram úr nausti. -
Dró eg lekan blindsviðs bát að boðnar-sundi,
þar háttuð voru karl og kvenndi, kraunk þó hyggja værð frá bendi. -
Dirfsku slíkri vann að voga vífið teita,
upp á ræðum ýmsum brjóta, en öfugt margt nam karli hrjóta. -
Þar kom loksins, víf svo vanda vogar ræðu:
„Er hann Freyvald ákvarðaður, eptirdags hér vistar-maður?" -
„Hvað er þér að því?" — spyr karl —
en þorns kvað eyri: „Rekkur héðan rekinn væri, ráða mör ef slíku bæri." -
Dreng þó hefði hann afsagt innan á-setts tíma,
þenkti gjörla þiljan seyma, það orð mundi ráða hann heima. -
Kvenndið vissi karls sér eptir kjæk þeim hegða,
gefni seims hvað grun á lagði, gafst og raunin full að bragði. -
„Vanur" — kvað hann — „var eg að ráða vistar-hjónum;
graut eða svik úr gjörðum mínum, gjöri eg trauðt að ráðum þínum." -
„Sörðu hvað þér sóma þykir" — seims kvað spíra —
„sumum á þér einlægari, ertu ei stundum fastheldnari." -
„Blindt er mör að hann brúki neina breytni klækja" —
svaraði karl með kappið freka — „kann eg hann ei frá mér reka." -
Kvenndið tér: „Þó klókskaps-reglur kunnir raunar,
gáfu hefir Freyvald fína, að fara í kríngum gætni þína." -
Hermdi karl: „Með hans ofmenni hefi eg spilað,
hann hefir lítil faung að fela, frá mör mun hann engu stela." -
Hjalaði svanni: „Hans á breytni hét ei segist,
ef hann stelur ei svo sjáist, eða þar til vitni náist." -
„Mun og skárst ei mundi eg hör um margar ræður
lifðu og deyðu dyggð hans viður, dugir þér það bezt og styður." -
„En hvað þér virðist verðt um mig það vissi eg fyrri,
og að þörer kannsk kærri, krambúðin, því hún er stærri." -
Þúngt í skapi vífi var og við hann tjáði:
„Mætti eg nota mitt frjálsræði, mundi eg ykkur kveðja bæði." -
Karl mót venju vífi að sér veik og tjáði:
„Hvað er í efni hrundin klæða? Hvað á — segir hann — þessi ræða?" -
„Bregzt mör síst, að eitthvað er í efni með þig,
segðu mör það satt, eg bið þíg, sé hann á hugi lagztur við þig!" -
„Sé þér nokkuð sárt um þetta" — svanni tjáði —
„lítið hér um er í eiði, ósært þó að hjá mér leiði." -
„En bak við hann ef hefðir staðið heill með rænu,
þegar hann stóð og húkti á knönu, hérna út undir linditrénu." -
„Þángað heim eg varð þess vís mér víkja leyfði,
eitthvað sýnst og heyrst þér hefði, hör um víst, er þánka krefði." -
Fyrst við þetta kæla kom í karlinn nokkur,
sagði: „Heyri eg hann er gikkur. Hvernig skyldi þá með ykkur?" -
Kvenndið tér: „Eg klakklaust þaðan komst án efa,
en mátti þángað mör honum lofa, meðan þér félli bezt að sofa." -
„Hvernig gaztu" — hjalaði karlinn — „hagað þessu,
svo hann fengi von þá vissa? Vorðinn er eg nú fyrst hissa!" -
„Lðzt eg mundi laga púns" — kvað liljan klúta —
„að dyttir þú fyrir drykkinn heita, í djúpan svefn, er hægt að veita." -
„Nefndi eg þetta nú, fyrst ekki nauðztu værða."
Kvenndi nú með kænsku þurði, karlinn trúði og framar spurði: -
„Hefirðu aldrei vör hans vilja vorðið áður?"
þuldi hún: „Jú! en þér til greiða, þenkti eg gildra nú til veiða." -
„Færi á honum fékkstu nú sem fyrst eg könni;
svo eg framar hér að hlynni, hafðu ráð mín einusinni." -
„Klæztu á næturklæðin mín, eg kann ráð leggja;
síðan muntu að sjálfur hyggja, sæng og koddi skal þar liggja." -
„Bezt mör þækti bragð svo laga" — baugs kvað eyri —
„þú í leyni færð þá færi, ef fyrr enn hann þar kominn værir." -
Karlinn þýddist kvenndis ráð í kænsku-þroti,
og ætlaði strax að æða á fætur, aptrað honum svanni lætur. -
„Þú skalt bíða þriðjúng nætur," — þöll kvað seyma —
„lengur en knappan klukkutíma, kúréu ei þar, því svöl er gríma." -
„Ef hann kémur, vit hans vilja" og vertu í stilli;
stúri eg ei þó styrtt á falli, og stafnum með þú heilsir karli." -
„Komi hann ekki, hverf þú heim í hvílu þína;
en haldtu á sæng og hægindu, hör það legg í framdyrinu." -
„Svo eg geti sagt það hafi eg sjálf innborið;
hann mér stofnað jómak ærið, og ónýtt sjálfur tækifærið." -
„Fari svo sem trauðt eg trúi," — talaði svanni —
„tvíllaust þetta takast kynni, ef til er reynt í öðru sinni." -
Karl afréði sem nú sagði svanni laginn;
órólegur um andardrögin, alltaf taldi klukkuslögin. -
Stundin kom; hann flaug á fætur fljótt sem kunni;
baugs lá eptir nakin nanna, í náttklæðin hann trózt af svanna. -
Rogast út og áði lúin undir trénu;
lá svo þar í lognfrostinu, lángri á sæng og hægindinu. -
Þreytti mikla þolinmæði, þar til síðast,
líkamans tók ylur eyðast, og honum stórum fór að leiðast. -
Enginn skyldi gefa gaum að gátum þeirra,
sem ætla að Freyvald ætti hlýrra, og ekkört máskð reyndi nýrra. -
Heyrir karl, þá hann er kulda-hrjáður orðinn,
liðugast þar sem laumast varð inn, læddist einhver hægt um garðinn. -
Varð nú glaður við, því ráðið vænkast þókti,
fann í engu fljóð sig blekkti. Freyvald hjá sör standa þekkti. -
Stundarkorn þar stóð og glápti stýrir korða:
„Lúrir þú hör, liljan borða!" — loksins tók hann svo til orða. -
„Þú hefir hugsað helzt þig skyldi ei híngað vanta;
vildi þér af veitast renta, ef vissir skeið til Ámors mennta." -
„Mikið afbragð máttu vera meðal flóna,
alvöru fyrst ætlar mína, áleitni við kvennskömm þina." -
„Mjög vel færi ef margt af fljóðum menn svo ræktu.
Kaupmann réttast væri eg vekti, valið kvenna svo hann þekkti." -
„Helzt þar veit eg horskum maka höfðíngsmanna,
fyrir þér, dyrgjan dáða þunna! dugir lítils góðs að unna." -
„Fyrir röttum fimm missirum fór eg híngað;
klæði gróf — mör kaup er gengið — og krónur þrjár jeg hefi fengið." -
„Jeg skal okkar fund víðfrægja fyrst þá morgnar,
héðan af þér til heiðurs þurfnar, hafðu það fyrir tillögurnar!" -
Þegar talað þetta hafði þollur hrínga,
að persónunni greiðt nam gánga, og greiddi högg á báða vánga. -
Þagði karl; með þeim svo skyldi; þá heim fór hann,
hraðaði sér og blýðinn var hann, hægindið og sæng inn bar hann. -
Hef eg ei tök á hér að greina hversu svanni,
vel sig breiddi að vigra runni, og vermdi hann sem mjúkast kunni. -
Fyrst um sinn, ei vildi vífið við hann spjalla;
tíðinda spurði tróðan pella, tönnum þegar hann hætti að skélla. -
Ofur feginn ylnaði fauskur inni þarna;
minnkaði kuldi og munnherkjurnar, maðurinn könndi ei blíðu þurðnar. -
„Kom ei Freyvald?" kvenndið spyr;
en karl nam svara: „Þér vil eg skil á þessu géra, þángað víst nam drenginn bera." -
„Hörum orð þín hafa mér ræzt, heyrst og fundist;
þó erindis-kornið annað reyndist, og augnamið hans fyrir þér leyndist." -
„Kænlegt bragð móti krók ofseinum kanntu bera."
Hrundin spurði hvítíngs leira: „Hvað segirðu, af þessu meira?" -
„Ekki göt eg öfundað þig af atlotunum,
þeim mör sýndi þundur fleina. Þannig víf karl nam greina." -
„Hef eg stundum hlíft á ræður hálft óþægar;
en aldrei skammir eins voldugar, yfir sem kvarta lítt þó dugar." -
Freyvalds svo, þó fljóði mjög til furðu bregði,
orðið hvert og atvik sagði, og nú framar það tillagði: -
„Fullvissu af fyrirtekt hans fæ eg dregið,
að einhver hefir að honum logið, og í hann síðan gremja flogið." -
„Viljað hefna vansa síns, en víst er eigi,
ef eg honum ekkört þægi, uppá hverju loks hann slægi." -
„Mig svo stansar" — mælti víf — „og má ei svara;
haganlegra hygg þó vera, hér í eitthvað fljótt að göra." -
„Hann kann líka sjá þör sann þó seinna láti,
en þó fyr sör annt um léti, í mig veiða þessu neti." -
„Að þú lengur haldir hann eg hef ei móti,
meðan viltu verk hans nýta, virðir nú ei mör til lýta." -
„Fullu launa fláttskap hans mér fellur seint inn;
en óttast hægt þó ýgldur gantinn, að mér snúi á þennan kantinn." -
„En upp héðan annast svo vel um hans hagi,
lítt að skaða mig hann megi, meir enn fyrir þig ei segi." -
Mælt hann: „Skyldu minnar part það minnstan segi eg.
Freyvald samt ei missa má eg, maka hans ei vissan á eg." -
„En háskalaust eg héðan af skal mör hvergi telja,
að ónýta þín orð og vilja, unz mig við þig hel má skilja." -
„Böl er mör hvað orð mín opt þér ángur veita;
grillur mínar gleymdar láttu, gjörvallar þær vita máttu." -
Koss þar uppá karl nam géfa klúta-nönnu;
sætt og vært hjá seyma gunni, sofnaði með þau orð í munni. -
Fljótt að morgni fleygir náði fíngra svella,
Freyvald inn í krambúð kalla, kátbroslegur við hann spjallar: -
„Allareiðu tæka tíð eg til þess könni,
að kaupið, sem þú átt hör inni, afgreiðist af hendi minni." -
Formála með fagurgala frekan þuldi;
renndi á staup og rekk út taldi, rokna summu af heilu gjaldi. -
Freyvald hans á höfðíngskap sig heilfarðaði;
blíðum þökkum býta náði, beygðist djúpt; en karl þá tjáði: -
„Heppilega hrannarljósið hjá þér brenni;
en bón skal fylgja bending minni; breytni hef eg grun á þinni." -
„Héðan af tveggja handa járn eg held þig, vinur!
lund ef mykja lukkast þína, lát þess njóta konu mína." -
„Henni sök þó hafirðu gefið, helzt ofsanna,
mun eg fátt um mæla nenna. Margvíslegt er sinnið kvenna!" -
„Ætlaði eg að hún þér hefði hlynnt sem skyldi;
allt af mör hún trú um taldi, til þín miðla þyrfti eg gjaldi." -
„Finnst mér samt ei fella verð á frama þínum,
að segja ei ykkar samfund neinum, sver mér það með eiði hreinum." -
„Tillátsemi" — sagði baldur svofnisstræta —
„oflítil má af mör heita, yður um þessa bæn að neita." -
Um þær sakir ótöldum, en andakt reyrðum,
fór nú karlinn faguryrðum, Freyvald öðrum þegi styrðum. -
Vinskaps-nagla sagðan sem nú sverast þoldu,
eiðs með fleinum ógna gildu, áröttuðu, og við það skildu. -
Burt gekk karl og birtist aptur bráðar vonum;
helztu menn úr heila bænum, heim þá leiddi að ráðum vænum. -
Arfleiðíng var uppsett þá og æztu mönnum,
undir skráð og afhendt svanna, ónýt sör ei baugs var nanna! -
Fundi sleit, en frá þeim tíma fór allt betur,
lék við fíngur kaupmann kátur, karlinum Freyvald eptirlátur. -
Ánægjan var allt af ný og úng með karli,
Fljóðs og hins var fátt í milli, fór þó allt með hægð og snilli. -
Hann þó stundum hagaði svo, því hollt var sinni,
í stríð við gefni fíngra fanna, að Freyvald yrði á vegi svanna. -
Æfinlega þetta þókti þorngrund vel;
þóknaðist karli það sem áður; þegar hann var nú orðinn gáður. -
Eptir þetta sex eða sjö ár svona lítu;
kvaddi loksins karlinn hauður; kvenndi féll til leifður auður. -
Tilfellinn að tjá af mér ei tími leyfir;
lesarinn ef gaum að göfur, gizkar hvernig farið hefur. -
Nafn þess aðar ljóða léns hins lítil-tigna,
af mun dregið ótta bragna. Er honum nú ei skást að þagna? -
Mel eg að kolum kjalars súlu kjöl og fjalir;
sel eg falað fálu kulið, félögum deilist málið þulið.
Source Colophon
Source text from Rímur af Flóres og Blanzeflúr, by Níels Jónsson skálda, published by Grímur Laxdal and Jón Jó, Akureyri, 1858. Printed at the Northern and Eastern Districts Press by H. Helgason. Digitised by the Internet Archive (identifier: RimurafFloresogB). The Rímur af Freyvald og kaupmanni Jens appear as an appendix to the Flóresrímur in the same volume.
The OCR of this 1858 Antiqua-type print is of moderate quality. Line breaks, hyphenation artifacts, and occasional character substitutions from the original digitisation have been regularised where possible but some artifacts remain in the source text above. The original pagination and column breaks have been silently removed.
Public domain.
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