Follow thy fav’rite trade and steal!
That we are gods did the good peasant know,
He’d slaughter all his herd, methinks, his zeal to show.”
Now Hœnir kill’d an ox, and Loptur ran
To th’ pantry, where his store the peasant kept;
Slily on tiptoe through each room he crept,
And with fresh butter fill’d his can.
He then took bread made of the finest rye,
In a white napkin wrapp’d; and as he pass’d
The hen-roost, all the eggs that met his eye