Page:The Story of Egil Skallagrimsson.djvu/155



&lt;strong&gt;HEAD-RANSOM&lt;/strong&gt;

&lt;strong&gt;1.&lt;/strong&gt;

'Westward I sailed the wave, Within me Odin gave The sea of song I bear (So 'tis my wont to fare): I launched my floating oak When loosening ice-floes broke, My mind a galleon fraught With load of minstrel thought.

&lt;strong&gt;2.&lt;/strong&gt;

'A prince doth hold me guest, Praise be his due confess'd:	Of Odin's mead let draught In England now be quaff'd.	Laud bear I to the king, Loudly his honour sing; Silence I crave around, My song of praise is found.

&lt;strong&gt;3.&lt;/strong&gt;

'Sire, mark the tale I tell, Such heed beseems thee well; Better I chaunt my strain, If stillness hush'd I gain. The monarch's wars in word Widely have peoples heard, But Odin saw alone Bodies before him strown.

&lt;strong&gt;4.&lt;/strong&gt;

'Swell'd of swords the sound Smiting bucklers round, Fiercely waxed the fray, Forward the king made way. Struck the ear (while blood	Streamed from glaives in flood) Iron hailstorm's song, Heavy, loud and long.

&lt;strong&gt;5.&lt;/strong&gt;

'Lances, a woven fence, Well-ordered bristle dense; On royal ships in line Exulting spearmen shine. Soon dark with bloody stain Seethed there an angry main, With war-fleet's thundering sound, With wounds and din around.

&lt;strong&gt;6.&lt;/strong&gt;

'Of men many a rank Mid showering darts sank: Glory and fame Gat Eric's name.

&lt;strong&gt;7.&lt;/strong&gt;

'More may yet be told, An men silence hold: Further feats and glory, Fame hath noised in story. Warriors' wounds were rife, Where the chief waged strife; Shivered swords with stroke On blue shield-rims broke.

&lt;strong&gt;8.&lt;/strong&gt;

'Breast-plates ringing crashed, Burning helm-fire flashed, Biting point of glaive Bloody wound did grave. Odin's oaks (they say) In that iron-play Baldric's crystal blade Bowed and prostrate laid.

&lt;strong&gt;9.&lt;/strong&gt;

'Spears crossing dashed, Sword-edges clashed: Glory and fame Gat Eric's name.

&lt;strong&gt;10.&lt;/strong&gt;

'Red blade the king did wield, Ravens flocked o'er the field. Dripping spears flew madly, Darts with aim full deadly. Scotland's scourge let feed Wolf, the Ogress' steed: For erne of downtrod dead Dainty meal was spread.

&lt;strong&gt;11.&lt;/strong&gt;

'Soared battle-cranes O'er corse-strown lanes, Found flesh-fowl's bill Of blood its fill. While deep the wound He delves, around Grim raven's beak Blood-fountains break.