Then up and spake grey Sivard the King,
His face with paleness ghastly all:
“A fate so dour as this I’m sure
Did never princes two befall.
“If I before had heard or known
The power of love was half so great,
I’d ne’er, I swear, have vext the pair
For all the wealth of Denmark’s state.
“Run some of ye to Signild’s bower,
And strive to bear my child relief;
Let others race to the gallows place,
For Hafbur bold was ne’er a thief.”
And when they came to Signe’s bower
All burnt they found the Lady fair;
When out of breath they reached the heath,
Hafbur was hanging dead in air.
They Hafbur took, the son of the King,
And round him linen white they roll’d;
And him they laid beside his maid,
With many a tear in Christian mould.
And then the wicked maid they took,
And to a death so horrid doomed;
A fitting bed for her they made,
Alive the wretch they have entombed.
* * * * *
London:
Printed for THOMAS J. WISE, Hampstead, N.W.
Edition limited to Thirty Copies.