And knows that her love was vain.
Draw from my arm this token,
This ring of gleaming gold:
And bear it to Ingibjörg the fair,
Lest she deem my love grown cold.
Young is the maid to bear the sorrow
Her heart must then endure,
When I ride not home to greet her,
When I keep not my tryst as of yore
*I left the youthful Ingibjörg