Answered the groom who loved the steeds
As dearly as his breath:
“Ye’d better little Malfred stick,
She well deserveth death.”
It was the little Engel,
His arms round Malfred twin’d:
“No death hast thou deserved from us,
And none from us shalt find.
“My little Malfred, do thou hear
What I now say to thee;
If a son this year thou chance to bear,
That son name after me.”
They placed her on a buckler,
They placed their spears below,
And through the window lifted her
With hearts so full of woe.
It was the little Malfred round
The church goes staggering now,
Scorched were her scarlet robes, and scorched
The ringlets on her brow.
It was the little Malfred fell
Upon her white bare knee:
“O may I bear a son this year,
The avenger of this to be.”
So they the little Malfred took
And in a mantle roll’d,
And sorrowfully lifted her
Upon a courser bold.
Outspake the little Malfred when
She reached the verdant plain:
“Burnt is our Lady’s house this day,
And burnt so bold a swain.
“Burnt is our Lady’s house, and burnt
Therein so brave a swain;
His equal till the day of doom
We ne’er shall see again.”
It happened in the autumn tide,
The autumn of that year,
That she within her secret bower,
A beauteous boy did bear.