“Sir Buris has cast the Rune-letters, alas,
On the bridge over which little Kirsten should pass.
Little Kirsten with anguish was filled, and with care,
Must spite of herself to Sir Buris repair.
She knocked with her hand on the thick oaken door:
“Sir Buris, arise, let me into thy bower.”
Upstood then Sir Buris, in scarlet array’d,
And straight he admitted the beautiful maid.
The whole night she lay in Sir Buris’ embrace,
All to her own sorrow and daily distress.
Now on towards summer and autumn it drew,
So stout in the waist little Kirsten she grew.
Her true waiting maid little Kirsten address’d:
“To the chamber of stone now convey me in haste.
And there unto me do thou bring the mid-wife
But let not the Queen know thereof for thy life.”
To her little foot-swain little Kirsten did say:
“Fetch hither Sir Buris, withouten delay.”
They met on the lofty hall’s high balcony,
Together discoursed they so sorrowfully.