"Ye'll wear a robe sae blithely gran',
An ell-long girdle canna span.
"When twal-months three shall pass away,
Your berry-brown hair shall be streaked wi' gray.
"And gin ye be mither of bairnies nine,
Your brow shall be wrinkled and dark as mine."
Karin she sprang to her feet wi' speed,
And clapped her hands abune her head:—
"I pray to the saints and spirits all
That never a child may me mither call!"
The crone drew near, and the crone she spake:—
"Nine times flesh and banes shall ache.
"Laidly and awsome ye shall wane
Wi' toil, and care, and travail-pain."
"Better," said Karin, "lay me low,
And sink for aye in the water's flow!"
The crone raised her withered hand on high,
And showed her a tree that stood hard by.
"And take of the bonny fruit," she said,
"And eat till the seeds are dark and red.