The Hammer in the Hollow Hill

Oh dark the wood of Mirkhill glen,And sharp the mountain wind,Where Weyland wrought with fire 'n stone,His gold and silver mined.

A smith was he, of wondrous craft,No forge could match his flame—The kings and queens of northern landsAll knew bold Weyland’s name.

But jealous eyes from Wantage came,King Nithad fierce and grim;He craved the cunning of the smith,And laid a trap for him.

They bound his feet with brazen cords,They clipped his sinews wide,And set him on an island bare,With anvils by his side.

There hammered he by night and day,With vengeance in his song,He shaped strange trinkets from the goldThey thought would make him strong.

He called the king’s own sons to him,And bade them view his blade—He struck them down, he broke their bones,And gifts for Nithad made.

A brooch he made from one boy’s breast,A goblet from his skull,The other’s eyes were set in gems,The queen found them most dull.

To Bodvild came the smith one eve,The daughter fair and proud;She brought a ring for him to mend,And met a fate unbowed.

He plied her with a silver draught,He took his will and way—And left her weeping on the isleEre came the break of day.

Then Weyland shaped himself great wings,With feathers trimmed and tight;He leapt aloft from Nithad’s isleAnd vanished into night.

He flew where no man dared to dream,To north lands far and free,And still the wind in lonely glensSings Weyland’s forgery.

So if you pass through moor or fell,And hear a hammer’s ring,Beware, for Weyland’s forge still burns—And sorrow it will bring.