He shaped him a steed, so black and bold;
He rode like a knight in a saddle of gold.

He tied his steed where the shade was mirk;
Withershins went he round the kirk.

Into the kirk he went, so gay,
And all the holy images they turned their heads away.

Up spake the priest by the altar that stood—
“Who may he be, this knight so good?”

The Princess smiled ’neath her veil so fine—
“Would to God that the knight were mine!”

“Listen, proud Princess, and love thou me—
A crown of gold I’ll give to thee.”

“Over three kingdoms my father was king,
But he never gave me so fair a thing.”

He wrapped her in his cloak of blue—
Out of the kirk they went, they two.

They met upon the wold
The steed with saddle of gold.

When they rode o’er the lea,
He became a troll, so foul to see.