The lady must turn up her silken sleeves so gay,
And help that cunning gipsy the slaughtered beasts to flay.
Now must she quit her kirtle and her silken sark so fair,
For silken sark and kirtle she nevermore shall wear.
(Oh, oh, ha! her silken sark so fair!
For silken sark and kirtle she nevermore shall wear.)
HAGEN AT THE DANCE
The King sits up in Ribe,
Drinking red wine;
He’s sent to all his Danish knights
Of noble line.
(So daintily danced he, Hagen!)
“Stand up now, all my meinè,
And knights so bold!
Tread ye for me a merry dance
All on the windy wold.”
Listed him there to dance,
The Danish King;
With them went haughty Hagen,
The round to sing.
The Queen awoke from slumber,
And laughed so low—
“Which one of all my maidens
Strikes the harp so?”
“Nay, none of thy merry maidens
Strikes the harp-strings;
That is haughty Hagen,
So sweet that sings.”
“Stand up now, all my ladies!
Wreathe the red rose!
We will fare forth, to see
How the dance goes.”