Skáldskaparmál

165


     '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;



166

     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



167

     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,



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     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,




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