Long stood damsel Mettie in doubt and in care:
“No one of my maidens take with me I dare.”
The maid and the little brown messan her friend,
Through the paths of the forest so lonely they wend.
Her mantle of blue the fair Mettie puts on,
And unto the bower of Sir Olaf she’s gone.
On the door of the chamber she gave a low knock:
“Sir Olaf, I pray thee, arise and unlock.”
“O none have I summoned to me at this hour,
And unto no one will I open my door.”
“Sir Olaf, arise, let me in I request,
At what I have heard I’m so sorely distrest.”
“At what thou hast heard, be thou glad or distrest,
Thou comest not into my bower of rest.
“But soon should the door to thee open I wot,
Provided Sir Peter thy sweetheart were not.
“Although in my heart I may love thee full dear,
Sir Peter for me to admit thee’s too near.”
“Sir Olaf, arise, let me in I implore,
The night-dew falls chilly my scarlet dress o’er.”