With his bride from Fiord Fere,
To the land of the lily and rose,
To the land where the wild woods sing;
Oh, happy the bride of the North, who goes
On the barque of the silver wing!
The palace a pile of crystal shone,
And its ice walls were mingled with fire,
And minstrels sat round the mailed throne,
With red torch, the saga and lyre.
“I have married a wife,” said Thorfin, young,