“By the Harp of Bragi,” said Birger, “I’ll back old Jacob against the field,—that fellow has such bottom!” for the honest toper’s voice came again dreamily up the hill where they were sitting, during the pause that followed this outburst.
“Little Kirstin then passed out from the door,—
We had best begin with the wooing:
She said, I shall hither come no more,—
My best beloved! I never will forget thee.
Forth she went to the garden there,—
We had best begin with the wooing:
She hung herself with her golden hair,—
My best beloved! I never can forget thee.”