It was Einar Tamberskelver
Stood beside the mast;
From his yew-bow, tipped with silver,
Flew the arrows fast;
Aimed at Eric unavailing,
As he sat concealed,
Half behind the quarter-railing,
Half behind his shield.
First an arrow struck the tiller,
Just above his head;
‘Sing, O Eyvind Skaldaspiller,’
Then Earl Eric said.
‘Sing the song of Hakon dying,
Sing his funeral wail!’
And another arrow flying
Grazed his coat of mail.
Turning to a Lapland yeoman,
As the arrow passed,
Said Earl Eric, ‘Shoot that bowman
Standing by the mast.’
Sooner than the word was spoken
Flew the yeoman’s shaft;
Einar’s bow in twain was broken,
Einar only laughed.
‘What was that?’ said Olaf, standing
On the quarter-deck.
‘Something heard I like the stranding
Of a shattered wreck.’
Einar then, the arrow taking
From the loosened string,
Answered, ‘That was Norway breaking
From thy hand, O King!’
‘Thou art but a poor diviner,’
Straightway Olaf said;
‘Take my bow, and swifter, Einar,
Let thy shafts be sped.’
Of his bows the fairest choosing,
Reached he from above;
Einar saw the blood-drops oozing
Through his iron glove.
But the bow was thin and narrow;
At the first assay,
O’er its head he drew the arrow,
Flung the bow away;
Said, with hot and angry temper
Flushing in his cheek,
‘Olaf! for so great a Kämper
Are thy bows too weak!’
Then, with smile of joy defiant
On his beardless lip,
Scaled he, light and self-reliant,
Eric’s dragon-ship.
Loose his golden locks were flowing,
Bright his armor gleamed;
Like Saint Michael overthrowing
Lucifer he seemed.
