Her silver handled comb she took,
And strove to comb his head;
For every hair that she did comb
A briny tear she shed.
For every lock the maiden combed
A stream of tears did run;
How often she the mother cursed
Who had betrayed her son.
It was Damsel Adelude,
She took him in her arm:
“Accursed be the wicked Dame
Who caused us all this harm.”
“Hear thou, sweet Damsel Adelude,
Curse not my mother so,
She had no power in this affair,
We all to fate must bow.”
He set him in his feather robe,
And mounted on the wind;
She set her in another robe,
And followed fast behind.
“O turn thee, Damsel Adelude,
Turn my beloved one,
Thy bower door doth open stand,
Thy keys lie on the stone.”
“Though my bower door doth open stand,
And my keys lie on the stone,
Yet I will follow thee to the place
Where harm to thee was done.”
All the birds she cut so small
She met with there on high,
Except the laidly Raven wild,
And him she could not spy.
’Twas the proud Damsel Adelude
Flew down towards the strand;
Nought found she of the Gladenswayne
Except the good right hand.
She flew so wroth the clouds below
The laidly bird to find;
She flew East, and she flew West,
To slay him she designed.