“Young Frey hath a sword, the best i’ the north,
(The birds on the trees sing sweet)
And Gerda, methinks, is that sword well worth;
So on just conditions I’ll treat.
“When the heart once loves with fervour and truth,
(On the flow’rets the dew-drops shine)
In war no longer delights the youth;
He sighs at his mistress’ shrine.
“Let Frey then give me his mystic sword!
(The sunbeams redden the sky)