Here is a wooer from Whitewater.
Fast away hath he gotten fame,
And his father's name is e'en my name.
Will ye lay hand within his hand,
That blossoming fair our house may stand?"
She laid her hand within his hand;
White she was as the lily wand.
Low sang Snæbiorn's brand in its sheath,
And his lips were waxen grey as death.
"Snæbiorn, sing us a song of worth.