I’ll hew with the brand!
‘Til life’s well-nigh past.
Grim is the pang of the adder.

If Góinn himself, be housed in my hearts core,
I’ll swell with wrath when thus betrayed,
Will not rest in peace withal.

I’ll hew with the brand!
I, harbinger of war, will fight fifty pitched battles and win.
My least thought, that any king, should ever prove my better.

Young was I, when I betook me,
To the reddening of spears.
The Vanir bid me but Death is dreadless, I am willing to depart.

They are bidding me home,
The Dísir whom Óðinn, Lord of Harriers,
Sends from his hall.

Gladly I'll drink, ale with Æsir.
When life days are done,
Laughing I’ll die!

Far Heill!