(Sun-bright south-maid, | ere thou sleepest;)
Each falls like blood | on the hero’s breast,
(Burned-out, cold, | and crushed with care.)
[45]. “Well shall we drink | a noble draught,
Though love and lands | are lost to me;
No man a song | of sorrow shall sing,
Though bleeding wounds | are on my breast; [[329]]
Now in the hill | our brides we hold,
The heroes’ loves, | by their husbands dead.”
Sigrun made ready a bed in the hill.