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Empty of good things,
Empty of gladness,
With no meat for thy mouth
But dead men’s corpses!

Dag.

With mad words thou ravest,
Thy wits are gone from thee,
When thou for thy brother
Such ill fate biddest;
Odin alone
Let all this bale loose,
Casting the strife-runes
’Twixt friends and kindred.

Rings of red gold
Will thy brother give thee,
And the stead of Vandil
And the lands of Vigdale;
Have half of the land
For thy sorrow’s healing,
O ring-arrayed sweetling
For thee and thy sons!

Sigrun.

No more sit I happy
At Sevafell;
At day-dawn, at night
Naught love I my life
Till broad o’er the people
My lord’s light breaketh;