"Evil sound his melodies, / his strokes of bow are red,
Yea, beneath his music / full many a knight lies dead.
I know not what against us / hath stirred that player's ire,
For guests ne'er had I any / whereby to suffer woe so dire."
None other would they suffer / to pass the door than those.
Then 'neath the hall's high roof-tree / a mighty din arose.
For evil wrought upon them / those guests sore vengeance take.
Volker the doughty Fiddler, / what shining helmets there he brake!
Gunther, lofty monarch, / thither turned his ear.
"Hear'st thou the music, Hagen, / that yonder Volker
Doth fiddle for the Hun-men, / when near the door they go?
The stroke is red of color, / where he doth draw the fiddle-bow."
"Mickle doth it rue me," / Hagen spake again,
"That in the hall far severed / I am from that bold thane.
I was his boon companion / and he sworn friend to me:
Come we hence ever scatheless, / trusty feres we yet shall be.
"Behold now, lofty sire, / the faith of Volker bold!
With will he seeks to win him / thy silver and thy gold.
With fiddle-bow he cleaveth / e'en the steel so hard,
Bright-gleaming crests of helmets / are scattered by his mighty sword.