'T is said, on the night of the thirtieth long day,
To dust and to ashes he moulder'd away.
SIR MIDDEL.
FROM THE OLD DANISH.
So tightly was Swanelil lacing her vest,
That forth spouted milk, from each lily-white breast;
That saw the Queen-mother, and thus she begun:
"What maketh the milk from thy bosom to run?"
"O this is not milk, my dear mother, I vow;
It is but the mead I was drinking just now."
"Ha! out on thee minion! these eyes have their sight;
Would'st tell me that mead, in its colour, is white?"
"Well, well, since the proofs are so glaring and strong,
I own that Sir Middel has done me a wrong."
"And was he the miscreant? dear shall he pay,
For the cloud he has cast on our honour's bright ray;
I'll hang him up; yes, I will hang him with scorn,
And burn thee to ashes, at breaking of morn."
The maiden departed in anguish and wo,
And straight to Sir Middel it lists her to go;
Arriv'd at the portal, she sounded the bell,
"Now wake thee, love, if thou art living and well.
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