[Manchester,] 20 June 1860
Dear Moor,
Amicus Lommel would certainly appear то draw rath er largely on 
h is im agination in ascribing the chief part in the Baden-Baden 
business to the Bonapartist denunciations.b But it’s undoubtedly 
quite correct that there’s something behind the business and that 
Vogt, Bonaparte and Co. are also resorting to this stratagem.
How nice it is that the Little Germans’ National Association- 
mongering24 should now be opportunely depicted in About’s 
pamphletc as virtually promoting Bonapartist interests. Presuma­
bly our friend Izzy will soon be making a change of front now; as 
a result of this pamphlet, the gentlemen will either reveal 
themselves as Bonapartists or else find themselves in a considera­
ble dilemma with that Prussian Germany of theirs.
I happened to come by the old Danish Kjämpe-Viserd; very nice 
stuff in places along with a great deal of rubbish. Here is one that 
Uhland has translated l8h:
Herr Oluf han rider saa vide 
Alt for bans brollup at byde,
Men dandsen den gaaer saa let gjennem.
Der dandse fire, der dandse fern, 
Ellerkongens datter rekker Haanden frem. 
Velkommen, Herr Oluf, lad blive din fig 
Bi lidet, og trad her i dandsen med mig.
Jeg ikke tor, jeg ikke maa,
Imorgen skal mit bröllup staa.
Hör du, Herr Oluf, trad dandsen med mig, 
To bukkeskinds stövle de giver jeg dig.
a Friend - b See this volume, p. 159. - cL a  P russe en I8 6 0 , Paris, 1860. - d Epic songs. 
Engels presumably refers to [Syv, P.,] EtH un drede udvalde D an sk e V iser, о т  aliehaande 
m œrkelige K rig s-B eä riv d  og anden  selsom  Eventyr, som s ig  her udi R iget ved garnie Kœm per, 
n av nkun dige K on ger, o g etiers fom em m e Personer begivet haver, a f  A rild s T id  til denne 
n<?rvârende Dag ..., Kipbenhavn, 1787.

To bukkeskinds stövle, sider vel om been, 
Forgyldene spore derom spend.
Jeg ikke tor, jeg ikke maa, imorgen etc.
Hör du, Herr Oluf, trad dandsen med mig, 
En silke skjorte giver jeg dig.
En silke skjorte hviid og fiin
Den blegte min moder veg maaneskin.
Jeg ikke tor, jeg ikke maa etc.
Hör du, Herr Oluf, trad dandsen med mig, 
Et hoved af guld det giver jeg dig.
Et hoved af guld maa jeg vel faa,
Men dandsen med dig tör jeg saa.
Og vil du ikke dandsen med mig,
Sot og sygdon följe dig.
Hun slog honom mellem sine Härde,
Aldrig var han slagen rärre.
Hun löfte honom paa sin genger rod,
Og riid nu-hjem til din fästemö.
Der han кот  til borgeleed,
Hans moder staar og hviler ved.
Hör du, Herr Oluf, kjär sonnen min 
Hvor bar du nu saa bieg en kind?
Jeg maa vel bare kinden bieg,
Jeg saa väret i Elle konens leg.
Hör du, Herr Oluf, min son saa grud,
Hvad skal jeg svare din unge brud?
I skal sige, jeg er udi lunden,
Aat prove min Hest og saa mine Hunde.
Aarle om morgen, dag det var,
Der kom den brud med brudeskar.
De skjänkte mjöd, de skjänkte viin;
Hvor er, Herr Oluf, brudgom min?
Han er gangen udi lunden
At prove sin Hest og saa sine Hunde.

Hun tog det skarlagen röd,
Der laae Herr Oluf og var dod.a
u Herr Oluf fares both far and wide,
T o fetch the wedding-guests he doth ride.
Maidens dance on the green land,
Four and five, a blithe band.
The Elf King’s daughter gives him her hand. 
Welcome, Herr Oluf, why wouldst thou flee?
Step into the ring and dance with me.
But dance 1 neither will nor may.
Tomorrow· dawns my wedding day.
Oh list, H err Oluf, come dance with me,
Two buckskin boots I’ll give to thee.
Two buckskin boots to fit you well,
Two gilded spurs for a magic spell.
But dance 1 neither will nor mav, etc.
Oh list, Herr Oluf, come dance with me,
A silken shirt I’ll give to thee.
A shirt all shining white so fine.
My mother bleached it with pale moonshine.
But dante I neither will nor may, etc.
Oh list. H err Oluf, come dance with me,
A pile of gold I’ll give to thee.
Gladly I'd take your gold away,
But dance I neither dare nor may.
An thou, H err Oluf, dance not with me,
Sickness and plague shall follow thee.
And then she touched him on the chest.
Never such pain had clutched his breast.
She helps him, half-swooning, his mount to bestride: 
Now get thee hence to thy fair bride.
As to his own door he drew near,
His mother was trembling there with fear.
1 ell me quickly, oh quickly, my son,
Why are thy looks so pale and wan?
How should they not be pale and wan?
’ Tis from the Elf King's realm I come.
Oh list, dear son I love so well,
What to your bride am I to tell?
Say to the forest I am bound.
T o exercise my horse and hound.
Next morning, when it was scarcely day,
There came the bride with her company.
They poured the mead, they poured the wine. 
Where is H err Oluf, bridegroom mine?

I like this much better than Uhland’s overpolished translation.
But another one about ‘Sir Jon’a
is even nicer.
Your
F. E.