Till gushed her heart's blood, warm and red,
Down on the cold ground there.
"Alas! what deed is this you do?
My Bliss on Earth, mo store! *
What woful deed is this you do,
O youth whom I adore?
Ah, spare our child and me, my love,
And the seven lands of earth I'll rove
Ere cause of grief to you I prove
For ever—ever more."