He bade them no more tears to shed,
For he would stand in their father’s stead.
The eldest sister began the weft,
The youngest finished what she left.
In the first lace she wove so true
The Virgin Mary and Christ Jesu.
And in the second of Norway land
She wove the Queen and her maiden band.
Of the antler’d hart they wove the chase,
They wove themselves with pallid face.
They wove with nimble fingers small
Of God the holy Angels all.
The youngest sister the woof up caught,
And that before the Queen she brought.
Then into her eyes the tears they came,
“Thou art not our Mother, Queenly Dame.
“Wert thou our mother or sister dear,
With praises thou our hearts wouldst cheer.
“But in thine eye no praise I see,
Misfortune is our destiny.”