Once I employed
My asa-might
In the gards of the giants.
When Gjalp and Greip,
Geirrod’s daughters,
Wanted to lift me to heaven.
Then Geirrod had Thor invited into the hall to the games. Large fires burned along the whole length of the hall. When Thor came into the hall, and stood opposite Geirrod, the latter seized with a pair of tongs a red-hot iron wedge and threw it at Thor. But he caught it with his steel gloves, and lifted it up in the air. Geirrod sprang behind an iron post to guard himself. But Thor threw the wedge with so great force that it struck through the post, through Geirrod, through the wall, and then went out and into the ground. From this saga, Eilif, son of Gudrun, made the following song, called Thor’s Drapa:
The Midgard-serpent’s father exhorted
Thor, the victor of giants,
To set out from home.
A great liar was Loke.
Not quite confident,
The companion of the war-god
Declared green paths to lie
To the gard of Geirrod.
Thor did not long let Loke
Invite him to the arduous journey.
They were eager to crush
Thorn’s descendants.
When he, who is wont to swing Megingjard,
Once set out from Odin’s home
To visit Ymer’s children in Gandvik,
The giantess Gjalp,
Perjured Geirrod’s daughter,
Sooner got ready magic to use
Than the god of war and Loke.
A song I recite.
Those gods noxious to the giants
Planted their feet
In Endil’s land,
And the men wont to battle
Went forth.
The message of death
Came of the moon-devourer’s women,
When the cunning and wrathful
Conqueror of Loke
Challenged to a contest
The giantess.
And the troll-woman’s disgracer
Waded across the roaring stream,—
Rolling full of drenched snow over its banks.
He who puts giants to flight
Rapidly advanced
O’er the broad watery way,
Where the noisy stream’s
Venom belched forth.
Thor and his companions
Put before him the staff;
Thereon he rested
Whilst over they waded:
Nor sleep did the stones,—
The sonorous staff striking the rapid wave
Made the river-bed ring,—
The mountain-torrent rang with stones.
The wearer of Megingjard
Saw the flood fall
On his hard-waxed shoulders:
He could do no better.
The destroyer of troll-children
Let his neck-strength
Wax heaven high,
Till the mighty stream should diminish.
But the warriors,
The oath-bound protectors of Asgard,—
The experienced vikings,—
Waded fast and the stream sped on.
Thou god of the bow!
The billows
Blown by the mountain-storm
Powerfully rushed
Over Thor’s shoulders.