It was little Kirsten
Who asked her mother dear:
“Mother, may I to the watching wend
Over the young knight’s bier?”
“Put thou on thy scarlet cloak,
And deck thy head with gold;
But be thou ware of young Sir Karl,
His wiles are manifold!”
She went in where the black bier stood
Betwixt the tapers tall;
She could not see their burning flames
So fast her tears did fall.
Right soothly for his soul she prayed,
All sitting at his head;
“Alas! thou wast my liefest love
In the days ere thou wast dead!”
She laid her face against his feet,
All on the linen white—
“Oh, in the days ere thou wast dead
Thou wast my heart’s delight!”
Right softly then to her he spake:
“Nay, cease thy bitter crying!
For lo! ’tis all for love of thee
That on this bier I’m lying.
“My steed stands in the cloister-garth
A-tarrying all for thee,
If thou now, little Kirsten,
Wilt fare afar with me.”
It was young Sir Karel
Rose up in his shroud so white—
And as they went from the convent-door
She bade them a gay good-night.
The nuns they all sat silent,
Each reading on her book;
They thought it was God’s good angel
The beauteous maid that took.
The nuns they all sat silent—
Each to herself said she:
“God grant that His good angel
May speedily come for me!”