"His sons, I do not know them;
If tribute they demand,
Custom the way will show them,
We'll meet them on the strand,
And see who best is reckoned;
But Thorstein was my friend."
His daughter then he beckoned,
Who sat quite near at hand.

Then rose the maiden tender,
From stool all golden bound,
Her waist is trim and slender,
Her bosom full and round,
Each dimpled cheek encloses
An Astrild, roguish sprite,
As when on opening roses,
The butterflies alight.

She hastened to her bower,
A green silk purse she brought,
With bird and tree and flower
And beast 'twas deftly wrought;
On seas were white-winged vessels,
Beneath the silver moon,
Of gold were all the tassels,
The clasp with rubies shone.

She placed the dainty treasure
Within her father's band;
He filled it, brimming measure,