He’ll find us a ship. O’er the salt sea foam
We’ll sail away south to Denmark’s bowers.
There waits you there a happy home;
Right joyously will fleet the hours;
The fairest of flowers they bloom in the shade
Of the beech-tree glade.
Signë.
[Bursts into tears.]
Farewell, my poor sister! Like mother tender
Thou hast guarded the ways my feet have trod,