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So we hurled
The rattling- stone,
The heavy block,
That men caught it.
In Svithjod's land
Afterward we
Fire-wise women,
Fared to the battle,
Byrnies we burst,
Shields we cleaved,
Made our way
Through gray-clad hosts.
One chief we slew.
Another we aided,—
To Guthorm the Good
Help we gave.
Ere Knue had fallen
Nor rest we got.
Then bound we were
And taken prisoners.
Such were our deeds
In former days,
That we heroes brave
Were thought to be.
With spears sharp
Heroes we pierced.
So the gore did run
And our swords grew red.
Now we are come
To the house of the king,
No one us pities.
Bond-women are we.
Dirt eats our feet,
Our limbs are cold,
The peace-giver[1] we turn.
Hard it is at Frode 's.
- ↑ The mill.
