Misfortune comes to every door,
And who can hope to ’scape its might?
And that can little Kirstine say,
And none alas with greater right.
It was the good Sir Peter, he
At fall of eve came home from Ting;
And it was little Kirstine fair,
That fell the knight to welcoming.
“Now welcome, welcome home from Ting,
Most welcome thou my father dear;
Whilst thou at Ting this day didst stand
Didst any news or tiding hear?”
“Enough of tidings I have heard,
To break my heart however sound;
Thy plighted youth has thee forsworn
Because thy name was bandied round.
“Thy plighted youth has thee forsworn,
And none can blame the youth I ween;
For eight long years it seems thou hast
A murdress and a harlot been.”
“Now do thou hear, my father dear,
Such wicked rumours thou shouldst scorn;
For thus is many a virtuous maid
Of fame and honor daily shorn.”
“And do thou hear, my daughter dear,
Thou shalt confess it to thy sorrow;
This evening thou shalt gather wood,
And burn upon that wood tomorrow.”
And so they took the fair Kirstine,
And her arrayed in scarlet weed;
And mournfully they lifted her
Upon the grey and lofty steed.
It was little Kirstine fair,
She reached at last the verdant wold;
“Now bless’d be God on high that dwells,
My bride-bed yonder I behold.
“So red, red are my bridal sheets,
My bridal bolsters are so blue,
The knights who thus their daughters wed
I hope and trust are very few.”
And so they took the little Kirstine,
And bade her sit a stump upon:
Then forward stepped her plighted youth,
And her yellow hair he has undone.
“Now do thou hear, my plighted maid,
I rede thee be of blythesome cheer,
For thou, I ween, dost here perceive
Thy bride-bed and thy funeral bier.”
When she had sat a little space
No longer there she cared to wait;
Now stand thou up, Sir Archbishop,
And Kirstine’s bride-bed consecrate.
The little Kirstine then they took
And midst the roaring blazes threw;
The fire recoiled on every side,
So fair and bright she stood to view.
“I thank the God who me has helped,
The God who made the earth and sky;
Now to a cloister I will go,
And serve my master till I die.”
And thither little Kirstine went,
And with her all her maidens fair;
Her father and her plighted youth,
They quickly died of grief and care.
And now within the cloister wall
The beauteous little Kirstine goes;
So joyous o’er her yellow hair
The veil so long and black she throws.