“No mouseling I, though call me, Jutt,
A mouseling if you will,
My father was good Sigurd King
Who slumbers in his hill.”
“Ha! was thy sire good Sigurd King?
Thou’st something of his face,
Thou hast sprung up full wondrously
In fifteen winter’s space.”
It was so late at evening tide
The sun had reached the wave,
When Orm the youthful swain set out
To seek his father’s grave.
It was the hour when grooms do ride
The coursers to the rill,
That Orm set out resolved to wake
The dead man in the hill.
Now strikes the bold Orm Ungerswayne
The hill with such a might,
It was I ween a miracle
It tumbled not outright.
Then stamped upon the hill so hard
Young Orm with heavy foot,
The arch was broke within the hill
Which trembled to its root.
Then from the hill Orm’s father cried,
Where he so long had lain:
“O cannot I in quiet lie
Within my murky den?
“Who dares so early break my rest,
And troubleth thus my bones?
Cannot I in quiet lie
Beneath my roof of stones?
“Who seeks at night the dead man’s hill
And works this ruin all?
Let him fear for now I swear
By Birting he shall fall.”
“I am thy son, thy youngest son,
Thy Orm, O father dear;
To beg a boon in mighty need
I come to seek thee here.”