[Footnote 4:  A gerfalcon is a large falcon of Northern Europe.]

  “Oft to his frozen lair
  Tracked I the grisly bear,
  While from my path the hare
      Fled like a shadow;
  Oft through the forest dark
  Followed the werewolf’s[5] bark,
  Until the soaring lark
      Sang from the meadow.

[Footnote 5:  According to a popular superstition, a werewolf is a man, who, at times, is transformed into a wolf.  Such a wolf is much more savage than a real wolf, and is especially fond of human flesh.  This superstition has at some time existed among almost all peoples.]

  “But when I older grew,
  Joining a corsair’s[6] crew,
  O’er the dark sea I flew
      With the marauders. 
  Wild was the life we led;
  Many the souls that sped,

[Footnote 6:  Corsair is but another name for a pirate.]

[Illustration:  I WAS A VIKING OLD]

  Many the hearts that bled,
  By our stern orders.

  “Many a wassail-bout[7]
  Wore the long Winter out;
  Often our midnight shout
    Set the cocks crowing,
  As we the Berserk’s[8] tale
  Measured in cups of ale,
  Draining the oaken pail,
    Filled to o’erflowing.

[Footnote 7:  A wassail-bout is a drinking bout, or carouse.]

[Footnote 8:  Berserk, or Berserker, was the name given in heathen times in Scandinavia to a wild warrior or champion.  The Berserkers, it is said, had fits of madness, when they foamed at the mouth and howled like beasts, rushing into battle naked and defenseless.  It was believed that at such times they were proof against wounds either from fire or from steel.]

  “Once as I told in glee
  Tales of the stormy sea,
  Soft eyes did gaze on me,
    Burning yet tender;
  And as the white stars shine
  On the dark Norway pine,
  On that dark heart of mine
    Fell their soft splendor.

  “I wooed the blue-eyed maid,
  Yielding, yet half afraid,
  And in the forest’s shade
    Our vows were plighted. 
  Under its loosened vest
  Fluttered her little breast,
  Like birds within their nest
    By the hawk frighted.

  “Bright in her father’s hall
  Shields gleamed upon the wall,
  Loud sang the minstrels all,
    Chaunting his glory;
  When of old Hildebrand
  I asked his daughter’s hand,
  Mute did the minstrels stand
    To hear my story.

  “While the brown ale he quaffed,
  Loud then the champion laughed. 
  And as the wind-gusts waft
    The sea-foam brightly,
  So the loud laugh of scorn,
  Out of those lips unshorn,
  From the deep drinking-horn
    Blew the foam lightly.

  “She was a Prince’s child,
  I but a Viking wild,
  And though she blushed and smiled,
    I was discarded! 
  Should not the dove so white
  Follow the sea-mew’s flight,
  Why did they leave that night
    Her nest unguarded?