First-light falling
Meets frith in the Vanhall:
Of ash and elm
The Elf-Home is wrought,
All loaded with leaves,
Lively and shimmerlike,
Dripping a drink
Of dew on the grass.
Seated in sunshine,
The sun of NjorðR,
Crafty in spell-lore,
Cunning in thought,
Casts his sight
Across the worlds,
Æþel - Van Freyr,
All-Givers waden.
Sees he, the Van-God,
Slaughter's harvest:
Freyja is flying
Through fields of spear-play
Choked with foemen;
She chooses her fallen,
As cat's claws rake
The cloud-home above.
Full grows his heart
Her fairness to gaze on,
His belioved aloft
Alongside the Sun.
In Sessrumir, the mead
Will be supped this Eve
By the hardest of heroes
In horns of gold.
A rumble and clatter
Rattles the Vanhall,
The wheels of his wagon
Webbed in silver,
Bridle a-jingling,
Bristles a-gleaming,
Scowls Gullinbursti,
And Skirnir, the steersman:
'Hard is the word
from hearths of the Russ!'
Says heart-fast Skirnir.
'Homes are ablaze!
Your friends must flee
from a fiend hight Beli,
An ill-meaning Etin
From outside the Mid-Yard.
Wroth now and keen,
Is the rider of helmets.
The skilled in the shield-clash
By Skirnir climbs.
His wagon of wood,
He wheels in a trice;
His bristled boar
He breaks to a trot.
Glows Gullinbursti,
Golden and stout,
In the light of the sun
As aloft he climbs.
Little legs pounding,
Long Snout Pointing,
The boar draws his foodfriend
Boldly to Russland.
FreyR brings his wain
To Fiorgyn's bosum,
To the folded earth
And the fields ablaze.
Clear through the waste
Goes the call of the Æþel-Van:
'Hear me, Beli
Your harvest must end!'
Over the treetops
The eyes of the Iotun
Gaze at the Gift-Tyr,
As the guts of cow
And dregs of blood
Drip from his maw.
Higher than the hills,
Stands the harrier of men.
Beli bellows with
Baleful laughter:
'A mood-mighty calf
Calls me to fight?
So high & heartstrong,
His head he will play for...
What name shall be writ
In runes on his stone?'
'NjorðR is my father,
Noatun's loaf-ward.
To Horn, I am husband,
And Hnoss is my bairn,
Byggvir and Beyla
Are bearers in my alehall.
Friend I am to Skirnir,
And FreyR is my name!'
'What shall I fear
From a freshling Van.
No luck can he look for...'
Laughs the ill-bringer.
Baring his blade,
The bale worker grins:
'Go! Fetch you weapon
To make good your boast!'
'You gloat at my youth,'
The Glad-God answers.
'I deem you a nitwit
To doom me by age!
Nor want I a weapon
To work my wrath
On your bullhead brow,
Bedmate of sheep!'
The Þorn-Þurs answers,
'You threaten unmanlike,
Weaving with wifmen
Your witchcraft and spells!
Iron on iron -
This is the Etin's way
To mete out and settle
All matters of worth!'
'How is this worthy?'
Horn's love asks,
Arms open wide
Over Earth's deep scars.
'Iron is for ploughing
The holy earth and reaping,
For these muddy folk
Who hold me their friend.
'Go from these fields
Bring gold in fee
To weigh out their loss.
Your way then take
To your frosty home,
Or fare forever
From lands of the living,
Most loathed Bellower!'
Truce then is tried
By the true-hearted warlord,
With the foeman of Folde.
The fell-dweller's sword,
Is balefully swung
Bites deep into earth -
Tearing the turf
By the toes of Fro-Ing.
In his hand holding
The horn of the deer-king
Spells of the Vanir
Are spoken by the Fro:
Wise words of might
O-er wand of the rutting-clash:
Stiff with strength,
He stabs at his foe.
FreyR sends fire,
A flare of lightning!
Beli is burst,
And bellows no more!
Trees come tumbling,
Toppled by the þurs.
Fiorgyn shudders
When he falls to her grasp.
Called from their hiding
By kind-hearted Skirnir,
Care-worn and fearful,
The keepers of the land
Gather to mourn.
Great is their sorrow:
The harvest waster
Means hunger for all.
A galdR begins
Gerd's betrothed:
A song for the soil,
Their sorrow to ease.
Growth comes quickly.
Green from the black furrows -
Grim faces are gladdened
By goldening corn.
Ing takes up
The etin's sword
A hundred hands
Of heavy iron -
He breaks the blade
The bruised the All-giver.
The freer of fetters calls
The folk to Thing.
Your herds lie slain,
Your houses rent,
But help and healing
May be had from the blade:
The iron will buy
Many oxen and horses
To bring home the harvest
And hallow the Blot.'
The wyn-god climbs
On his wain beside Skirnir.
The folk, new-gladdened,
Follow on his way,
Sig-songs and Thank-songs
They sing for NjorðR's boy -
Long will they love
The Lord Ing-FreyR.
Galdr sings FreyR
For the ghosts of the fallen
To follow behind
On his faring home.
He draws in his wagon
The dead by the etin
To the Folk-Field of Vanadis,
Fair under Heaven.