Page:The Story of Egil Skallagrimsson.djvu/194



Then said Egil, 'You do well, daughter, in that you will follow your father. Great love have you shown to me. What hope is there that I shall wish to live with this grief?' After this they were silent awhile. Then Egil spoke: 'What is it now, daughter? You are chewing something, are you not?' 'I am chewing samphire,' said she, 'because I think it will do me harm. Otherwise I think I may live too long.' 'Is samphire bad for man?' said Egil. 'Very bad,' said she; 'will you eat some?' 'Why should I not?' said he. A little while after she called and bade them give her drink. Water was brought to her. Then said Egil, 'This comes of eating samphire, one ever thirsts the more.' 'Would you like a drink, father?' said she. He took and swallowed the liquid in a deep draught: it was in a horn. Then said Thorgerdr: 'Now are we deceived; this is milk.' Whereat Egil bit a sherd out of the horn, all that his teeth gripped, and cast the horn down.

Then spoke Thorgerdr: 'What counsel shall we take now? This our purpose is defeated. Now I would fain, father, that we should lengthen our lives, so that you may compose a funeral poem on Bodvar, and I will grave it on a wooden roller; after that we can die, if we like. Hardly, I think, can Thorstein your son compose a poem on Bodvar; but it were unseemly that he should not have funeral rites. Though I do not think that we two shall sit at the drinking when the funeral feast is held.' Egil said that it was not to be expected that he could now compose, though he were to attempt it. 'However, I will try this,' said he.

Egil had had another son named Gunnar, who had died a short time before.

So then Egil began the poem, and this is the beginning.

&lt;strong&gt;SONA-TORREK (SONS' LOSS).&lt;/strong&gt;

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

'Much doth it task me	My tongue to move, Through my throat to utter The breath of song. Poesy, prize of Odin, Promise now I may not, A draught drawn not lightly From deep thought's dwelling.

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

'Forth it flows but hardly; For within my breast Heaving sobbing stifles Hindered stream of song Blessed boon to mortals Brought from Odin's kin, Goodly treasure, stolen From Giant-land of yore.

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