By Finn's sons aforetime, when the fear gat them,

The hero of Half-Danes, Hnæf of the Scyldings,

On the slaughter-field Frisian needs must he fall.

Forsooth never Hildeburh needed to hery

The troth of the Eotens; she all unsinning

Was lorne of her lief ones in that play of the linden,

Her bairns and her brethren, by fate there they fell

Spear-wounded. That was the all-woeful of women.

Not unduly without cause the daughter of Hoc

Mourn'd the Maker's own shaping, sithence came the morn