And so on an eve of the autumn do men the beakers fill,
    And the earls are gathered together ’neath the boughs of the
      Branstock green;
    There gold-clad mid the feasting went Borghild, Sigmund’s Queen,
    And she poured the wine for Sinfiotli, and smiled in his face and said: 
    “Drink now of this cup from mine hand, and bury we hate that is dead.”

    So he took the cup from her fingers, nor drank but pondered long
    O’er the gathering days of his labour, and the intermingled wrong.

    Now he sat by the side of his father; and Sigmund spake a word: 
    “O son, why sittest thou silent mid the glee of earl and lord?”

    “I look in the cup,” quoth Sinfiotli, “and hate therein I see.”

    “Well looked it is,” said Sigmund; “give thou the cup to me,”
    And he drained it dry to the bottom; for ye mind how it was writ
    That this king might drink of venom, and have no hurt of it. 
    But the song sprang up in the hall, and merry was Sigmund’s heart,
    And he drank of the wine of King-folk and thrust all care apart.

    Then the second time came Borghild and stood before the twain,
    And she said:  “O valiant step-son, how oft shall I say it in vain,
    That my hate for thee hath perished, and the love hath sprouted green? 
    Wilt thou thrust my gift away, and shame the hand of a queen?”

    So he took the cup from her fingers, and pondered over it long,
    And thought on the labour that should be, and the wrong that
      amendeth wrong.

    Then spake Sigmund the King:  “O son, what aileth thine heart,
    When the earls of men are merry, and thrust all care apart?”

    But he said:  “I have looked in the cup, and I see the deadly snare.”

“Well seen it is,” quoth Sigmund, “but thy burden I may bear.” 
And he took the beaker and drained it, and the song rose up in the
hall;
And fair bethought King Sigmund his latter days befall.

But again came Borghild the Queen and stood with the cup in her hand,
And said:  “They are idle liars, those singers of every land
Who sing how thou fearest nothing; for thou losest valour and might,
And art fain to live for ever.” 
Then she stretched forth her fingers white,
And he took the cup from her hand, nor drank, but pondered long
Of the toil that begetteth toil, and the wrong that beareth wrong.

But Sigmund turned him about, and he said:  “What aileth thee, son? 
Shall our life-days never be merry, and our labour never be done?”

But Sinfiotli said:  “I have looked, and lo there is death in the cup.”

And the song, and the tinkling of harp-strings to the roof-tree
winded up: 
And Sigmund was dreamy with wine and the wearing of many a year;
And the noise and the glee of the people as the sound of the wild
woods were,