One day her father ordered a great feast to be given, and invited to it all the marriageable young men from far and near. They were all placed in a row, according to their rank and position. First came Kings, then Princes, then Dukes, Earls, and Barons. The Princess was led through the ranks, but she had some fault to find with all of them. One was too stout. 'That barrel!' she said. The next was too tall. 'Long and lean is no good!' The third was too short. 'Short and stout, can't turn about!' The fourth was too white. 'Pale as death!' The fifth was too red. 'Turkey-cock!' The sixth was not straight. 'Oven-dried!' So there was something against each of them. But she made specially merry over one good King, who stood quite at the head of the row, and whose chin was a little hooked. 'Why!' she cried, 'he has a chin like the beak of a thrush.' After that, he was always called 'King Thrushbeard.' When the old King saw that his Daughter only made fun of them, and despised all the suitors who were assembled, he was very angry, and swore that the first beggar who came to the door should be her husband. A few days after, a wandering Musician began to sing at the window, hoping to receive charity. When the King heard him, he said: 'Let him be brought in.' The Musician came in, dressed in dirty rags, and sang to the King and his Daughter, and when he had finished, he begged alms of them. The King said: 'Your song has pleased me so much, that I will give you my Daughter to be your wife.' The Princess was horror-stricken. But the King said: 'I have sworn an oath to give you to the first beggar who came; and I will keep my word.' No entreaties were of any avail. A Parson was brought, and she had to marry the Musician there and then. When the marriage was completed, the King said: 'Now you are a beggar-woman, you can't stay in my castle any longer. You must go away with your Husband.' The Beggar took her by the hand and led her away, and she was obliged to go with him on foot. When they came to a big wood, she asked: 'Ah! who is the Lord of this forest so fine?' 'It belongs to King Thrushbeard. It might have been thine, If his Queen you had been.' 'Ah! sad must I sing! I would I'd accepted the hand of the King.' After that they reached a great meadow, and she asked again: 'Ah! who is the Lord of these meadows so fine?' 'They belong to King Thrushbeard, and would have been thine, If his Queen you had been.' 'Ah! sad must I sing! I would I'd accepted the love of the King.' Then they passed through a large town, and again she asked: 'Ah! who is the Lord of this city so fine?' 'It belongs to King Thrushbeard, and it might have been thine, If his Queen you had been.' 'Ah! sad must I sing! I would I'd accepted the heart of the King.' 'It doesn't please me at all,' said the Musician, 'that you are always wishing for another husband. Am I not good enough for you?'