“Away, thou young Sir Biörn!
Let be thy cozening tale!
Her face that as a rose was red
Is now grown wan and pale.”
“There sitt’st thou, King of Norroway,
A-drinking red, red wine!
The lady that thou lovest
Was first true love o’ mine!”
“And if the lady that I love
Has plighted troth to thee,
Then never will I bear her home
To Norroway with me.
“Now tell me on thy faith and troth,
What I shall ask, my bride!
Wilt reign a queen in Norroway,
Or a dame in Denmark bide?”
“Liefer I’d bide a simple dame
A good knight’s name to bear,
Than go with thee to Norroway,
A queenly crown to wear!”
It was the King of Norroway
Smote hand upon the board—
“Ne’er have I known a knight’s daughter
That e’er spake such a word!”
It was the King of Norroway
That laughed, and made right merry—
“And dost thou love him more than me,
With him I trow shalt tarry!”
They rode away, the King his men,
So sadly over the land,
All but the young Sir Biörn
That won the maiden’s hand.
They rode away, the King his men,
So sadly over the ice—
All but the young Sir Biörn,
For he has won the prize!