The lad he upsprang on his courser so high,
He galloped as fast as the wingèd birds fly.
In, in came the lad, in a kirtle red drest:
“Your daughter, Dame Lyborg, in death will soon rest.
“She bids you to come with all possible quickness,
To live through this night she can’t hope from her sickness.”
Straight unto her servants proud Mettelil says:
“My horses go fetch from the meads where they graze.”
The horses they galloped, the chariot wheels turned,
Throughout the long day whilst the summer heat burned.
The midsummer’s sun with such fury it glows
Proud Lyborg swoons ’neath it in terrible throes.
A purse takes Dame Ingeborg fraught with gold treasure,
And she speeds to the hall, her heart bounding with pleasure.
“Whosoever will gold and will bounty derive,
Let him help me to bury proud Lyborg alive.”
Soon as she of the gold distribution had made,
Below the black earth the fair lily they laid.
To the gate of the castle proud Mettelil came,
Dame Ingeborg stood there, and leaned on the same.