Danish ballads — Reading Companion

Metrical Fidelity and the Translator’s Choices

Smith-Dampier’s preface foregrounds her method: she has “striven in general rather for literal accuracy than poetical effect.” This is evident in the irregular line lengths and stanza forms that mirror the Danish originals. For instance, in “Oh, Seventy-seven Twice-told were They,” the stanza pattern shifts between a longer narrative line and a short refrain: “—There sounds thunder the captains under, when they ride forth.” The translator also notes a single lapse in pronunciation—treating “Sir Klaus Krummerdike” in the Danish fashion—which she humorously hopes will “deserve rather mercy than judgment.” Such details reveal a translator attentive to the sonic texture of the source language, even when it complicates English prosody.

Shields, Dice, and the Language of Conflict

The ballads repeatedly employ heraldic imagery and games of chance to structure combat. In “Oh, Seventy-seven Twice-told were They,” each warrior is identified by a shield device: a lion, hammer and tongs, a golden serpent, a wolf, a vulture, a fiddle and bow, an elephant, a swarthy vulture, two arrows, a burning brand, and a cowl. These emblems are not merely decorative; they signal the bearer’s identity and role—the monk Brother Alsing, for instance, “would follow fain the fray.” Dice also determine who fights whom: “On the board they cast the dice / That fell both far and wide, / And the lot it was young Humlunger’s / With Sivord there to ride.” This blend of chance and emblematic display gives the combat a ritualistic, almost game-like quality.

Supernatural Encounters and the Ballad’s Economy

Several ballads in the collection involve mermen, elves, or enchanted maidens, often with a stark economy of action. In “Agnes and the Merman,” the title suggests a cross-species encounter typical of Danish folk tradition. The ballad “The Knavish Merman” implies trickery or deception. These supernatural figures are not elaborated into full fantasy worlds; instead, they appear within the compressed, formulaic structure of the ballad stanza, where a single stanza can shift from dialogue to fatal consequence. The translator’s choice to retain the original metrical variations means that these encounters retain the abrupt, incantatory rhythm of the oral tradition, where the uncanny is rendered matter-of-factly.

Readers approaching this collection should attend to the interplay between the translator’s stated literalism and the inherent musicality of the ballads. The burdens, though placed only at beginning and end, hint at a performance context that the printed page can only partially convey. The historical ballads, in particular, gain resonance when read alongside the legendary and magical ones, as the same formal devices—repetition, incremental dialogue, sudden violence—serve both chronicle and fantasy.

The rain drummed against my window, and I kept returning to that strange Danish ballad where dice decide a hero’s fate. The starkness stayed with me. Later, almost by chance, I opened Servian Popular Poetry — Context and Discussion and found the same quiet weight, the same acceptance of chance and shadow, waiting in those unfamiliar verses.