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The hands shall stop,
The stone shall stand;
Now have I ground
For my part enough.
Yet to the hands
No rest must be given,
'Till Frode thinks
Enough has been ground.
Now hold shall the hands
The lances hard.
The weapons bloody, —
Wake now. Frode!
Wake now, Frode!
If you would listen
To our songs, —
To sayings old.
Fire I see burn
East of the burg, —
The warnews are awake.
That is called warning.
A host hither
Hastily approaches
To burn the king's
Lofty dwelling
No longer you will sit
On the throne of Hleidra
And rule o'er red
Rings and the mill.
Now must we grind
With all our might,
No warmth will we get
From the blood of the slain.
Now my father's daughter
Bravely turns the mill.
The death of many
