IX. THANGBRAND THE PRIEST. SHORT of stature, large of limb, All the women stared at him, "Look!" they said, With nodding head, "There goes Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest." All the prayers he knew by rote, He could preach like Chrysostome, From the Fathers he could quote, He had even been at Rome. A learned clerk, A man of mark, Was this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. He was quarrelsome and loud, And impatient of control, Boisterous in the market crowd, Boisterous at the wassail-bowl, Everywhere. Would drink and swear, Swaggering Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. In his house this malecontent Could the King no longer bear, So to Iceland he was sent To convert the heathen there, And away One summer day Sailed this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. There in Iceland, o'er their books Nor the songs they used to write. "All this rhyme Is waste of time!" Grumbled Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 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 o'er his beer Began to leer Drunken Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest? All the folk in Altafiord Boasted of their island grand; Saying in a single word, "Iceland is the finest land That the sun Doth shine upon!" Loud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. And he answered: "What's the use Of this bragging up and down, When three women and one goose Make a market in your town!" Every Scald Satires scrawled On poor Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 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; With words that go Sprawling below, "This is Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest." Hardly knowing what he did, Then he smote them might and main, Thorvald Veile and Veterlid Lay there in the alehouse slain. |