“Here sitt’st thou, Sir Erik, in scarlet array’d;
I’ve wedded thy daughter, the beautiful maid.”
“And who art thou, Rider? what feat hast thou done?
No nidering coward shall e’er be my son.”
“O far have I wander’d, renown’d is my name,
The heroes I conquer’d wherever I came:
“Han Elland, ’t is true, long disputed the ground,
But yet he receiv’d from my hand his death-wound.”
Sir Erik then alter’d his countenance quite,
And out hurried he, in the gloom of the night.
“Fill high, little Kirstin, my best drinking cup,
And be the brown liquor with poison mixt up.”
She gave him the draught, and returning with speed,
“Young gallant,” said he, “thou must taste my old mead.”
Sir Fridleif unbuckled his helmet and drank;
Sweat sprung from his forehead—his features grew blank.
“I never have drain’d, since the day I was born,
A bitterer draught, from a costlier horn:
“My course is completed, my life is summ’d up,
For treason I smell in the dregs of the cup.”