I Thou shalt not whimper, daughter mine!
No selfish season this for sighs!
There are kine to milk, and paths to be digged,
And the hind--hear how it grieves and cries!
Fresh snow on the roof-tree lieth thick,
Still heavy the drifts weigh down the skies;
This be a day to do and dare, --
Then up, Wynhilda, --dry thine eyes! II It's not from the handwork I hold back,
It's not for frost I fret and weep;
My fingers are willing, --but faith grows faint, --
O prithee, mother, let me sleep! III Weak words, thy words, Wynhilda mine!
These days, bear-fierce, must hearts be dead;
Though Edwald sleep face-down tonight,
And firebrand show his bosom red
With axe and war-bill, vain by tears!
This morn's no morn to hang the head;
Our clansman's woe is our common woe, --
And death were his proudest marriage-bed! IV Nay, stay thy chiding, mother mine!
I've flown this night to the field, rock-girt;
I weep, but not for Edwald slain, --
A caitiff he skulked, alone unhurt!