A tearful boy king Olaf stood,
'Mid his warriors grim and grey,
As the good ship bore him over the flood,
From his first fond love away.
His wistful eyes still sought the shore,
But his rough earls laughed that Odin's seed
The woodland flower should stoop to heed,
The Maid of Elsinore.

The mountain pine grows strong and sure,
By northern tempests swayed,
The frail hare-bell will bloom secure
In the sheltered forest glade;
Thus Olaf's arm waxed great in war,
Till distant isles his prowess knew,
And fairer bloomed and ever true
The Maid of Elsinore.

'Twas ten long years of storm and fight 
By many a foreign main,
Ere great king Olaf's conquering might
Came sailing home again;
The Viking ships were ranged ashore,
The rough earls laughed in scorn no more,
He placed her hands within his own,
Upon her brow the queenly crown;
O'er fiord and field the glad bells pealed
For the Maid of Elsinore.