Young Swaigder, or The Force of Runes
It was the young Swaigder, With the little ball he played;The ball flew into the Damsel's lap, And pale her cheeks it made.The ball flew into the Damsel's bower. He went of it in quest;Before he out of the bower came, Much care had filled his breast!"The ball, the ball thou shouldst not fling, Shouldst cast it not at me;There sits a maid in a foreign land, She sighs and weeps for thee.
Other books by this author
Do you want to read a book that interests you? It’s EASY!
Create an account and send a request for reading to other users on the Webpage of the book!
