Fair of face and noble birth,
None the wiser of his worth,
His guests they gather with tale-
Knives un-greased, tongues await ale.
Find his Father nor his stock,
Whereforth come those golden locks?
In his hold he’ll bare no bard.
Nor gold shared, as times hence hard.
Our champions collect wood,
Where a worldly battle once stood.
We pay his levvies and fines.
You may your piece and me mine;
Without promptly a full plate,
Without cows milk a calf sate.
Without hearth in darkest night,
Without mirth’s coin for my plight.
– Let that be Bres’s condition.