"Never shalt thou Birting win,
To obtain the King's fair daughter,
Till to Ireland thou hast been,
And aveng'd thy father's slaughter."

"Give to me the Birting sword,
And with Birting bid me thrive,
Or I will thy sheltering hill
Into thousand atoms rive."

"Stretch thou down thy right hand here,
Take the falchion from my side;
If thou break thy father's hill,
Dreadful wo will thee betide."

From the hill he Birting stretch'd,
Plac'd the hilt within his grasp:
"Strong of hand and valiant stand,
That thy foes before thee gasp."

From the hill he Birting stretch'd,
Plac'd the hilt within his hold:
"Save good fate on thee await,
I shall never be consol'd."




INGEBORG'S LAMENTATION.