It was the good Sir Peter, he
At fall of eve came home from Ting;
And it was little Kirstine fair,
That fell the knight to welcoming.
“Now welcome, welcome home from Ting,
Most welcome thou my father dear;
Whilst thou at Ting this day didst stand
Didst any news or tiding hear?”
“Enough of tidings I have heard,
To break my heart however sound;
Thy plighted youth has thee forsworn
Because thy name was bandied round.
“Thy plighted youth has thee forsworn,
And none can blame the youth I ween;
For eight long years it seems thou hast
A murdress and a harlot been.”
“Now do thou hear, my father dear,
Such wicked rumours thou shouldst scorn;
For thus is many a virtuous maid
Of fame and honor daily shorn.”
“And do thou hear, my daughter dear,
Thou shalt confess it to thy sorrow;
This evening thou shalt gather wood,
And burn upon that wood tomorrow.”
And so they took the fair Kirstine,
And her arrayed in scarlet weed;
And mournfully they lifted her
Upon the grey and lofty steed.
It was little Kirstine fair,
She reached at last the verdant wold;
“Now bless’d be God on high that dwells,
My bride-bed yonder I behold.
“So red, red are my bridal sheets,
My bridal bolsters are so blue,
The knights who thus their daughters wed
I hope and trust are very few.”
And so they took the little Kirstine,
And bade her sit a stump upon:
Then forward stepped her plighted youth,
And her yellow hair he has undone.