DAGNY. But needs must thou; honourable men were thy sons, one and all; a song must be made of them, and that can none of our kin but thou.
ORNULF (looks inquiringly at SIGURD). To sing? What thinkest thou, Sigurd?
SIGURD. Meseems it is but meet; thou must e'en do as she says.
DAGNY. Thy neighbours in Iceland will deem it ill done when the grave-ale is drunk over Ornulf's children, and there is no song to sing with it. Thou hast ever time enough to follow thy sons.
ORNULF. Well well, I will try it; and thou, Dagny, give heed, that
afterwards thou may'st carve the song on staves.
(The men approach with the torches, forming a group around him;
he is silent for a time, reflecting; then he says:)
Bragi's[1] gift is bitter
when the heart is broken;
sorrow-laden singer,
singing, suffers sorely.
Natheless, since the Skald-god gave me skill in song-craft, in a lay loud-ringing be my loss lamented!
(Rises.)
Ruthless Norn[2] and wrathful wrecked my life and ravaged, wiled away my welfare, wasted Ornulf's treasure.