The fair Sidselil, of all maidens the flower,With her mother the Queen sat at work in her bower.
So hard at the woof the fair Sidselil plies,That out from her bosom, so white, the milk flies.
“Now hear thou, O Sidselil, child of my heart,What causes the milk from thy bosom to start?”
“O that is not milk, my dear mother, I vow,It is but the mead I was drinking just now.”
“Unlike are the two,... more...