Sang songs of bewailing, as the warrior strode upward,
Wound up to the welkin that most of death-fires,
Before the howe howled; there molten the heads were,
The wound-gates burst open, there blood was out-springing
From foe-bites of the body; the flame swallow'd all,
The greediest of ghosts, of them that war gat him
Of either of folks; shaken off was their life-breath.
[ XVIII. THE ENDING OF THE TALE OF FINN.]
Departed the warriors their wicks to visit
All forlorn of their friends now, Friesland to look on,