Two riders ride out from the king's palace,
They ride down to the shore;
The wind whistles up high,
The waves break foamingly on the shoreline.

The king speaks to his page,
He speaks in a dark mood:
Who, my good fellow, gave you the rose;
The rose upon your hat?

"The rose was given to me by my mother,
When anxiously she let me go forth!
I put it in water every night,
Thus it blooms every morning."

They ride along beside the blue bay,
The waves mutter in a monotone,
Screeching, the seagulls fly up before them.
The king has another question:

Whose is the curl that I saw
Wound upon your breast,
When a moment ago the vigorous ride
Caused your riding jerkin to gape open?

That is the light brown hair of my sister,
As fine and soft as silk!
It is sweetly scented with oil of roses,
She wept upon it when we parted."

They ride up upon the rock path,
Along the pathway are carved
Blood runes from ancient times.
The king poses a third question:

Speak, and tell me truly,
My fellow, your life is at stake:
Who gave you the ring upon your finger,
The golden ring?

"She who gave me the ring upon my finger,
Also gave to me her heart;
She is the most beautiful maiden
In all of your kingdoms."

The king's forehead becomes as red as blood,
His eyes burn with rage;
"The ring is the ring of my child!
I know its gleam well.

And if you dared in audacious desire
To court her person,
I take no pity upon your young, fresh life,
You must die."

He unsheathes his sharp sword,
He thrusts it through the young man's heart;
His blood flows over the runic stone
Down into the waves.

He tosses the corpse into the flood:
"And if your aspirations be so lofty,
You may now court
The queen of the water nymphs!"

Along the shore toward the castle
Rides home a gloomy rider;
Out into the sea floats the corpse,
The waves continue to roar.