“One draught of pure water could’st thou bring me now,
To cheer up my heart that is sinking so low?”
So faithful to her was the Child, and so true,
He fetched her the drink in her gold spangled shoe.
Child Maidelvold sped through the forest so black,
He went to the fountain the wearisome track.
And when he arrived at the fount in the vale,
Two nightingales sat there and sang him their tale:
“Dead Sidselil lieth beneath the green bough,
With two little babes on her bosom of snow.”
He paid little heed to the nightingales’ lay,
And traced through the forest his wearisome way.
But, ah! what a spectacle burst on his view,
The little birds’ story he found to be true.
A grave broad and deep has Child Maidelvold made,
Therein the unfortunate three he has laid.
As o’er them he clamped the mould down with his boot,
He thought that the babies screamed under his foot.
Against a grey stone has the Child set his sword,
The point of the blade his heart mortally gor’d.