On my lips she laid it,
goodly gift of songcraft;
loud, then, let my lay sound,
e’en where they are lying!
Hail, my stout sons seven!
Hail, as homeward ride ye!
Songcraft’s glorious god-gift
stauncheth woe and wailing.
[He draws a deep breath, throws back the hair from his brow, and says calmly:
So—so; now is Örnulf sound and strong again. [To the men.] Follow me to the supper-board, lads; heavy has been our day’s work!