He don’d his gloves, and Megingard around his girdle laced,
To act with force, when in his hand his Miölner should be placed.
Now red they take to paint his cheek; they cut his nails; when drest,
A sprig of whitethorn in full bloom they fasten to his breast.
Now round the god travestied thus th’ Asynior young and gay,
Like children at a fav’rite game, delighted frisk and play:
“O Thrymur! gallant Thrymur!” in chorus loud they chime,
“Hast thou ne’er been love’s vassal, thou’lt not escape this time.”
To harness now and yoke the goats was Tialf’s peculiar care:
Then Thor and Lok in female garb ascend the golden car.