By Angantyr's sword with its pitiless point
And its edges in poison cast.

*I have given no cause to Ingibjoerg
To hold my prowess light;
It shall never be said by our maidens at home
That I gave one thought to flight.
They shall hear how the battle was fought and won.--
How I wielded my sword in the fight.

Five manors were mine, all nobly appointed,
Where I might have tarried and made good cheer.
Yet my heart was stirred by a restless longing
That urged me onward to Samso here,
Where, pierced by the sword, with my life blood out pouring,
I shall linger and die on this island so drear.

In my mind I can see the henchmen
Drinking mead in my father's hall.--
A circle of gold is round every throat,
And joy is among them all.
My merry companions are drinking their ale,
Till thought and care are no more,
While I, torn with wounds from a murderous sword,
Perish here on this island shore.

*The lofty halls of Sigtun,
I see them from far away;
And the maidens who sought to withhold us
As we hastened forth on our way.
I shall never again see those maidens,
Or talk with the warriors bold,
Or drink fair ale in the King's high hall,
As I did in the days of old.

In my heart a voice still lingers,
The voice of a maiden fair,
Who rode with me forth to Agni's meads,
And bade farewell to me there.
And true, too true, were the words she spake
From the depths of her despair,
That never again should I touch her lips,
Or tangle her golden hair.

In my ear a song is ringing,
An echo from out the East,--
I heard it from Soti's cliffs on the night
When I left my friends at the feast.
How could I know that never again
Should I hear the maidens' lay,
As I hastened forth with my heart aflame,
And my good ship sailed away?

*In token of what has befallen,
My helmet and corslet take,
And bear them forth to the King's high hall.--
'Tis the last request I make.
The prince's daughter, fair Ingibjoerg,
Will be stricken with grief and pain
When she looks on my good shield hacked and rent,
And knows that her love was vain.

Draw from my arm this token,
This ring of gleaming gold:
And bear it to Ingibjoerg the fair,
Lest she deem my love grown cold.
Young is the maid to bear the sorrow
Her heart must then endure,
When I ride not home to greet he