“If thou art Orm my youngest son,
The kempion bold and brave,
Last year I gave to thee of gold,
All, all thy heart could crave.”
“Last year you gave me store of gold
On which I set no worth,
Now I this year must Birting have,
The bravest sword on earth.”
“Never shalt thou Birting get
To win the Monarch’s daughter,
Until to Ireland thou hast been
To ’venge thy father’s slaughter.”
“Give to me the Birting sword,
And with it bid me thrive,
Or I the hill above thee will
To thousand pieces rive.”
“Stretch thou down thy hand and take
My Birting from my side,
But if thou break thy father’s hill
Much woe will thee betide.”
He cast to him the sword, its point
Appeared above the mould:
“Save good fate on thee shall wait
I ne’er shall be consol’d.”
He reached to him the sword, and placed
Its hilt within his grasp:
“Beneath its blows may all thy foes
Before thee sink and grasp.”
Then took the sword Orm Ungerswayne,
And on his shoulder plac’d;
And to the Monarch’s hall he sped,
As fast as he could haste.
It was the lofty Jutt of Bern
With wrath was nearly wild:
“It ill becomes a man like me
To battle with a child.”
“Although I be but little, Jutt,
A fearless heart I keep,
And oftentimes a little hand
O’erturns a mighty heap.”