er wilt get thy hammer of gold,
Upon that thou may'st rely,
Unless he have Damsel Fridleifsborg,
And all our property."

Then answered straight the proud Damsel,
Upon the bench as she sate:
"Ye'd better give me a Christian man,
Than the laidly trold for mate.

"But we will take our old father,
And deck so fine his head,
And we'll carry him to the Northern hills,
To stand for bride in my stead."

And now to the house of the merry bridegroom
They the young old bride convey;
Upon her dress no gold was spared,
For a verity I say.

And so they took the lovely bride,
On the bride-bench placed her frame;
And to skink before the bride himself
The carlish Count he came.

Then she ate six oxen bodies,
And three fat swine beside;
Loaves seven hundred were her meal,
Ere for a draught she cried.

Before her thirst she could assuage
She drank ten casks of ale;
She set the can once more to her mouth
And to hickuping then she fell.

The carlish Count strode up and down,
And wrung his hands so sore:
"O whence can this young bride be come?
She does so much devour!"

The Count he called to his Botelere:
"Thou hadst better broach away,
For we have here such a wondrous bride,
She'll drink for ever and aye."

Answered then Lokke Leyemand,
'Neath his sleeve he laughed with glee:
"For full eight days she has not ate.
She longed so much for thee."

Outspake the laidly carlish Count,
And thus the Count did cry:
"O, call ye in my serving swains,
Bid them come instantly.

"Go, fetch me hither the hammer of gold,
Glad I'll surrender it;
If I can either in honour or shame,
Of such a young bride be quit."

The Kempions eight in number were,
Who the hammer brought on a tree;
They laid it down so courteously
Across the young bride's knee.

It was then the youthful bride
Took up the hammer big;
I tell to ye for a verity
She swung it like a twig.

First she slew the carlish count,
That throld both laid and tall;
And then as they strove to 'scape through the door,
She slew the little trolds all.

The guests and the Norland men each one
So downcast were of mood;
Blows from the hand of the bride they got
That robbed their cheeks of blood.

It was Lokke Leyemand,
He opened his mouth in game:
"Now we will fare to our country home,
And our sire a widow proclaim."

FROM THE ARABIC

O thou who fain would'