“No! not to the song from the nightingale’s throat,
But unto Sir Olaf his gilded horn’s note.
“This night’s walk, and others of similar sort,
Will make thee the subject of common report.
“The walk of this night, and perhaps many more,
By the Saints, my fair Mettie, this walking give o’er.
“Now hear thou proud Mettie, to bed hie away,
And ’neath the white linen thy fair body lay.
“Depart to thy bed, that I rede thee to do,
Would’st have me remain to thee tender and true.
“I’ve lost now my courser, the steady and tried,
Because thou hast proved thee a false, fickle bride.”
And what became of her no man ever knew,
Nor whither her ashes before the wind flew.
But as soon as her bower in ruddy flame blazed
In the breast of Sir Peter such anguish was raised.
Sir Peter he grieved to his very death day,
Sir Olaf ne’er ventured to cross his friend’s way.
I counsel each swain, in affectionate part,
To tempt not too hardly the maid of his heart.