When she that sword remember’d
a grief it needs must be;
The hilt of it was golden,
its sheath red broidery.
It brought to mind her sorrow;
her tears began to fall;
I ween the hardy Hagen
had therefor done it all.
When she that sword remember’d
a grief it needs must be;
The hilt of it was golden,
its sheath red broidery.
It brought to mind her sorrow;
her tears began to fall;
I ween the hardy Hagen
had therefor done it all.