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The wood elf twisted sun-beams red
Into a shapely weed,
And the tallest birk in Sillarwood
He hewed into a steed;
And shod it wi' the burning gold
To glance like ony glede.
The Ettin shook his bridle reins
And merrily they rung,
For four and twenty sillar bells
On ilka side were hung.
The Ettin rade, and better rade,
Some thretty miles and three,
A bugle horn hung at his breast,
A lang sword at his knee;
'I wud I met,' said the Ettin lang,
'The maiden Marjorie!'
The Ettin rade and better rade
Till he has reached her bouir,
And there he saw fair Marjorie
As bricht as lily flouir.
'O Sillarwood!—Sweet Sillarwood!—
Gin Sillarwood were mine,
