Not would Grotte have come
From the mountain gray,
Nor this hard stone
Out from the earth;
The maids of the mountain-giants
Would not thus be grinding
If we two knew
Nothing of the mill.
Through winters nine
Our strength increased,
While below the sod
We played together.
Great deeds were the maids
Able to perform;
Mountains they
From their places moved.
The stone we rolled
From the giants’ dwelling,
So that all the earth
Did rock and quake.
So we hurled
The rattling stone,
The heavy block,
That men caught it.
In Svithjod’s land
Afterward we
Fire-wise women,
Fared to the battle,
Byrnies we burst,
Shields we cleaved,
Made our way
Through gray-clad hosts.
One chief we slew,
Another we aided,—
To Guthorm the Good
Help we gave.
Ere Knue had fallen
Nor rest we got.
Then bound we were
And taken prisoners.
Such were our deeds
In former days,
That we heroes brave
Were thought to be.
With spears sharp
Heroes we pierced,
So the gore did run
And our swords grew red.
Now we are come
To the house of the king,
No one us pities.
Bond-women are we.
Dirt eats our feet,
Our limbs are cold,
The peace-giver[100] we turn.
Hard it is at Frode’s.
The hands shall stop,
The stone shall stand;
Now have I ground
For my part enough.
Yet to the hands
No rest must be given,
’Till Frode thinks
Enough has been ground.
Now hold shall the hands
The lances hard,
The weapons bloody,—
Wake now, Frode!
Wake now, Frode!
If you would listen
To our songs,—
To sayings old.
Fire I see burn
East of the burg,—
The warnews are awake.
That is called warning.
A host hither
Hastily approaches
To burn the king’s
Lofty dwelling.