Li-u-o, my Queen!
Thou whose beauty is completest,
Li-u-o, my Queen!
Crop thy fill of honey clover,
Crop and crop it o’er and over,
On the Alp thou fairest rover,
Li-u-o, my Queen!”
Atli closed his powerful jaws with a snap on the last word, and Gretli took up the song, her rich, deep contralto ringing out nobly.
“I will follow at thy calling,
O my master dear!