Then yielded the roselet her innocent sprite,
To God she commended it as it took flight.
O then was King Vald’mar with sorrow opprest,
And wildly his heart ’gan to knock in his breast.
“What a hard hearted wretch thou, O Sophy, must be,
That thou her distress without pity could see.
Shame upon thee, thou basest of all womankind,
Thou now hast obtained the great wish of thy mind.
Alack! well a day, my dear sister is dead;
Now where shall we bury the rose-flower red?”
“In Riber street, Sir, let thy flower repose,
That o’er her may tread every day my horse-shoes.”
“O never shalt thou have the joy, that thy horse
Shall tread o’er the ground which concealth her corse.
To Vestervig’s cloister her corse shall be sent,
O’er her shall be placed a red brick monument.”
He caused her be buried with grandeur and state,
All the days of his life the King sighed for her fate.
“Now I will retire to a chamber of gloom,
A chamber which fire nor light shall illume.