A folk are we who deem it no shame to be slain in fight,
though that be the deeming thereof of Salool and ´Ámir;
Our love of death brings near to us our days of doom,
but their dooms shrink from death and stand far distant.
There dies among us no lord a quiet death in his bed,
and never is blood of us poured forth without vengeance.
Our souls stream forth in a flood from the edge of the whetted swords:
no otherwise than so does our spirit leave its mansion.
Pure is our stock, unsullied: fair is it kept and bright
by mothers whose bed bears well, and fathers mighty.