It was Vitting Helfredson,
By the beard the skinker has ta’en;
He smote him a blow the ear below,
Which dashed out half his brain.
He flung the dead corse on the board,
And a merry jest had he:
“Who’ll taste,” said Vitting Helfredson,
“This precious roast for me?”
Then forth stepped Diderik Van Bern,
And, brandishing his glaive,
He hewed upon King Ifald’s head,
And him to the navel clave.
And forth stepped Vidrik Verlandson,
And round began to hew;
Heads and arms were smitten off
As round and round he flew.
In came King Ifald’s mother grey,
With an eldritch scream she came;
I tell to ye in verity
There ensued a wondrous game.
Vitting struck her with his sword,
A very fearful stroke;
But she kissed asunder the good sword,
Into pieces three it broke.
With a single kiss of the witch’s mouth
Was shivered the trusty sword;
Vitting the hag by the weazand seized,
Without a single word.
The beldame changed herself to a crane,
And flew to the clouds on high;
But Vitting donned a feather robe,
And pursued her through the sky.
They flew for a day, they flew for three,
Bold Vitting and the crane;
Then Vitting seized the crane by the legs,
And her body rent in twain.
Homeward now, with sword in hand,
The valiant comrades wended:
All the Birting kemps are dead,
And the adventure ended.