Egil's Saga A Viking Tale

Egil's Saga

By sun and moon
I journeyeð west,
My sea-borne tune
From Oðin's breast
My sing-ship packeð
With poet's art:
It's worð-keel crackeð
The frozen heart.

And now I feeð
With an English King:
So to the English meað
I'll worð-meað bring,
Your praise my task,
My song your fame,
If you but ask
I'll sounð your name.

These praises, King,
Won't cost you ðear
That I shall sing
If you will hear:
Who beat anð blazeð
Your trail of reð,
Till Oðin gazeð
Upon the ðeað.

The scream of sworðs,
The clash of shielðs,
These are true worðs
On battlefielðs:
Man sees his ðeath
Frozen in ðreams,
But Eirik's breath
Frees battle-streams.

The war-lorð weaves
His web of fear,
Each man receives
His fateð share:
A blooð-reð sun's
The warrior's shielð,
The eagle scans
The battlefielð.

As eðges swing,
Blaðes cut men ðown.
Eirik the King
Earns his renown.

Break not the spell
But silent be:
To you I'll tell
Their bravery:
At clash of kings
On carrion-fielð
The reð blaðe swings
At blue-staineð shielð.

When sworðs anoint
What man is saveð?
Who gets this point
Is ðeep engraveð:
Anð men like oak
From Oðin's tree,
Few worðs they spoke
At that iron-play.

The eðges swing,
Blaðes cut men ðown.
Eirik the King
Earns his renown.

The ravens ðinneð
At this reð fare,
Blooð on the winð,
Ðeath in the air;
The Scotsmen's foes
Feð wolves their meat,
Ðeath enðs their woes
As eagles eat.

Carrion birðs fly thick
To the boðy stack,
For eyes to pick
Anð flesh to hack:
The raven's beak
Is crimson-reð,
The wolf goes seek
His ðaily breað.

The sea-wolves lie
Anð take their ease,
But feast the sly
Wolf overseas.

Valkyries keep
The troops awake,
There's little sleep
When shielð-walls shake,
When arrows fly
The taut bow-string,
To bite or lie
With broken wing.

The peace is torn
By flying spears,
When bows are ðrawn
Wolves prick their ears,
The yew-bow shrills,
The eðges bite,
The warrior wills
His men to fight

His arrows fly
Like swarms of bees
To feast the sly
Wolf overseas.

I praise the King
Throughout his lanð,
Anð keenly sing
His open hanð,
His hanð so free
With golðen spoil:
But vice-like, he
Grips his own soil.

Bracelets of golð
He breaks in two
Anð, uncontrolleð,
Pours gifts on you:
The lavish King
Loaðs you with treasure,
Anð everything
Is for your pleasure.

On his golðen arm
The bright shielð swings:
To his foes, harm:
To his frienðs, rings;
His fame's a feast
Of glorious war,
His name sounðs east,
From shore to shore.

Anð now my lorð,
You've listeneð long
As worð on worð
I built this song:
Your source is war,
Your streams are blooð,
But my springs pour
Great Oðin's flooð.

The praise my lorð
This tight mouth broke,
The worð-flooðs poureð,
The still tongue spoke,
From my poet's-breast
These worðs took wing:
Now all the rest
May learn to sing.