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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, Olafs Priest. | |
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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, Olafs Priest. | |
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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, Olafs Priest. | |
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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, Olafs Priest. | |
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There in Iceland oer 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, Olafs Priest. | 35 |
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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 oer his beer | 40 |
Began to leer | |
Drunken Thangbrand, Olafs Priest? | |
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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, Olafs Priest. | |
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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 scrawled | 55 |
On poor Thangbrand, Olafs Priest. | |
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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, Olafs Priest. | |
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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, Olafs Priest. | 70 |
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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, Olafs Priest. | |
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