Then uprose maiden Else,
O'er her cheek the salt tears ran,
Nor spared she into her very bower
To welcome that dead man.
O, she's taken up her comb of gold
And combed adown her hair,
And for every hair she combed adown
There fell a weary tear.
"Hearken thou, knight Aagen,
Hearken, true-love, and tell,