Skáldskaparmál

'Hardy was Hrungnir,
And his father;
Yet was Thjazi
Than they more mighty:
Idi and Aurnir
Of us twain are kinsmen,-
Brothers of Hill-Giants,
Of them were we born.

'Grótti had not come
From the gray mountain,
Nor the hard boulder
From the earth's bosom,
Nor thus would grind
The Hill-Giants' Maiden,
If any had known
The news of her.

'We nine winters
Were playmates together,
Mighty of stature,
'Neath the earth's surface,
The maids had part
In mighty works:
Ourselves we moved
Mighty rocks from their place.

'We rolled the rock
O'er the Giants' roof-stead,
So that the ground,
Quaking, gave before us;

So slung we
The whirling stone,
The mighty boulder,
Till men took it.

'And soon after
In Sweden's realm,
We twain fore-knowing
Strode to the fighting;
Bears we hunted,
And shields we broke;
We strode through
The gray-mailed spear-host.

'We cast down a king,
We crowned another;
To Gotthormr good
We gave assistance;
No quiet was there
Ere Knúi fell.

'This course we held
Those years continuous,
That we were known
For warriors mighty;
There with sharp spears
Wounds we scored,
Let blood from wounds,
And reddened the brand.

'Now are we come
To the king's abode

Of mercy bereft
And held as bond-maids;
Clay eats our foot-soles,
Cold chills us above;
We turn the Peace-Grinder:
'T is gloomy at Fródi's.

'Hands must rest,
The stone must halt;
Enough have I turned,
My toil ceases:
Now may the hands
Have no remission
Till Fródi hold
The meal ground fully.

'The hands should hold
The hard shafts,
The weapons gore-stained,-
Wake thou, Fródi!
Wake thou, Fródi,
If thou wouldst hearken
To the songs of us twain
And to ancient stories.

'Fire I see burning
East of the burg,
War-tidings waken,
A beacon of warning:
A host shall come
Hither, with swiftness,

And fire the dwellings
Above King Fródi.
'Thou shalt not hold
The stead of Hleidr,
The red gold rings
Nor the gods' holy altar;
We grasp the handle,
Maiden, more hardly,-
We were not warmer
In the wound-gore of corpses.

'My father's maid
Mightily ground
For she saw the feyness
Of men full many;
The sturdy posts
From the flour-box started,
Made staunch with iron.
Grind we yet swifter.

'Grind we yet swifter!
The son of Yrsa,
Hálfdanr's kinsman,
Shall come with vengeance
On Fródi's head:
Him shall men call
Yrsa's son and brother.
We both know that.'

The maidens ground,
Their might they tested,