He feared neither scorch nor scar,
the warrior in the shield-storm;
broad in shoulder, bright in hair,
mild and quick in his eyes.
Ríma I
Mansöngr
Before I had the nerve
to count old rímur,
this game seemed to me
worth little of delay.
The word has stirred a man strangely
with longing among the rímur;
which is why I am unwilling
to rhyme toward pleasure now.
Often has it been told of men
who won bright peoples,
out in lands and east across the world —
love-children borne in swords.
Bitter grief has struck many here
here in this land;
those who drank from the goblet
of dear Venus's blend.
Helgi the skald, for rings' sake,
withheld nothing from pleasure —
to a maid he composed a fair praise-stanza
on a soft piece of parchment.
It was not easy for Helgi's household
before the bright woman;
often he spoke of the courtly maid,
how she caused him heartache.
Gunnlaug — I hear — for gold's goddess,
his sorrows deepened;
many stanzas he made still for maidens,
good mansöng-verses.
I shall never speak of the woman's garland
with Venus's charms;
I'll speak rather in ancient dance
from wise saga-branches.
The Story
Ólaf I name, the glorious king
who held Horðaland to rule;
the lord held his land secure
with mighty deeds and words.
Gróðar-Ásmundr was the king's father,
like few men;
he always offered sword-weather,
and stripped kings of their realm.
Kári manned the bow of the knörr,
king and good warriors;
no one equaled him in boldness;
Örnólfr was his brother.
They reddened the king's blade
and punished wicked men;
no harm fell on men of old
who traveled with honest trade.
The prince gladdened his men
with fair Draupnir-sweat;
that man stood highest among the burgesses
who could hold the title.
He was named Gripr, who stirred up strife,
eager to match himself with steel;
the man had a worthy wife,
daughter of Hrókr the Black.
Gripr owned Gunnlöð — those two
grew wise through verse —
six heirs and then three more,
all called hrókars.
Gripr's son, I hear, was named Hrómund;
he was the eldest of brothers;
never did courage let his heart falter;
nowhere his equal was found.
Hrolfr I shall name, Högni and Gautr,
Haki and Þröstr the Lucky,
Angantýr and Helgi drew
lots with hands in the river.
Logi was youngest, a fine young man,
that the skilled couple had;
Hrómund stood alone in warfare
while the others stayed at home.
He feared neither scorch nor scar,
the warrior in the shield-storm;
broad in shoulder, bright in hair,
mild and quick in his eyes.
Never did he flee the battle-line,
drove spears into shields;
in boldness both trusty and true,
as a worthy man should be.
The evil-folk he slew with boldness,
never afraid in torment;
he had all the hero's spirit
from Hrókr, his kinsman.
With the king were two warlocks
who knew many sorceries;
Bildr and Vóli, those brothers —
both I call cowards.
The lord took counsel from Vóli —
that was without foresight;
the man knew nothing of courtesy or deed
and never wore chain mail.
A worse man in the weapon-clash
I scarcely believe would be found —
shifty and treacherous behind one's back,
trusted by none in nature.
Now they held east past Norway,
the Niflungs' men on ferries;
the lord's host, hardly bold,
lay by the Elvar-skerries.
Warriors won the battle quickly
against the ring-adorned lord;
now Ólaf's men lay at anchor
by a headland with their ships.
"You shall cross straight over the isle,"
the lord tells Kári,
"find out if you meet a viking's vessel
and if strife will grow great."
Kári and Örnólfr learned the land;
six warships came into sight;
the sails of strangers standing many,
spread wide across the sea.
Kári steered keen and bright
to hail the strangers' fleet:
"Who is that who leads these warriors?
Who commands here?"
One challenger stood on the dragon-prow:
"Hrönvgviðr is my name;
you may well know Kári and Örnólfr —
come here tomorrow, Kári.
"Earlier shall wolves eat your flesh,
I know that well —
do not ask or expect quarter
from my men."
Can you say who Kári is?
He speaks to the one who asked.
"Sixty men I've sent to harm —
let them find that account."
So they parted, those warriors —
Kári and Örnólfr came home,
and told their lord the tale;
the brothers burned to win more glory.
The battle was fierce among warriors;
the brave brothers went forward
rushing together at the bows
to clear the decks.
Hrönvgviðr by Óðinn's gift —
let me explain this to all —
could choose each day among men
the finest for battle.
The bright long blade does not fail
in any clash of shields;
the hero hurls it in the spear-rush —
I believe it will never grow dull.
Hrönvgviðr pressed hard in battle,
he saw the spear-shower:
"Kári will learn something from me —
the bent point of my halberd."
"Though my new coat of mail may break
and I bleed from every wound,
no woman in town will hear
that he fled from Kári."
Kári cleared the shields away
exactly with his art;
never fewer than five or six
he felled with a single blow.
Hrönvgviðr leaped onto the king's ship
upon Ólaf's men;
his halberd was wondrously broad
and passed straight through Kári.
When Kári felt death near
and knew the spear was in him:
"Gracious lord, live well now —
I shall go visit Lóðurr's kin."
Both brothers were sent then
quickly to Hel's torment;
Örnólfr straightway, with boldness,
rose up upon his spear.
The ship grew quiet after that
about Ólaf's long vessel;
Hrönvgviðr called out to the people:
"Yield to us, and give your hands."
Gripsson, I hear, rushed forward
with a single steel-tipped club;
the man turned grim after that —
he knows how to deal wounds.
The berserk no blade could bite,
no spear-flight nor arrows;
which is why the champion came forward
with a club wrought of steel.
The man had wrapped, grey and white,
a goat's beard about him;
he came there with fierce boldness
until he found Kári's body.
"Here I have found the bravest brothers
fallen on the king's ship;
I want to give those who rule in battle
their bed in Hel."
He raised the king's banner
into the ring of shields;
then all retreated onto Hrönvgviðr's ship
when Hrómund the strong struck.
Hrönvgviðr asked fiercely:
"Who is this that slays wolves —
the one with the cudgel beating to death
many of our men?
"Who is this foolish oaf,
that fells warriors here?
Wretched old man, flat and feeble,
and killed Kári's father?"
"Hrómund the warriors name me;
I wished to avenge my brothers;
my club shall meet with you —
it will come to your chest like a nerve."
The berserk, I hear, in the spear-dew,
did not yield from this,
and with the cudgel's pounding-blow
Hrómund let him fall.
The champion's club-blow, I hear,
came into the helmet's depth;
the berserker got a blow from the west,
and he had to sink down.
Hrönvgviðr, with courageous heart,
sprang to his feet again:
the sword-Tyr will last but a short time
alive after this blow.
"I have been in the spear-dew,
so skillful a champion I found;
yet I have never taken such a blow
received in all my life."
Hrönvgviðr declared brave words
as he set about killing men:
"If champions come at me past the side,
tonight I shall visit Óðinn."
The club-blow the champion struck
came so hard on the cheek;
the helmet was driven into the skull,
the head split apart.
The berserker's blade fell then, red,
out of the gripping palms;
a little later he lay dead,
beaten to pieces on the planks.
Hrómund asked the king's troop
whether they wished to choose:
to strike now as the bold man cut
or submit to the king's mercy.
"We have let fall a brave man
who raised a hard rowing-race;
we shall choose the option
of going in the king's hands."
The troop was made ready for joy;
the stern war-host was calmed.
Here I shall let the tales first
fall down for now.
Ríma II
Mansöngr
Clever women I can praise
in my verses;
another must rise for her
in words of sharp desire.
That man is lost who hates women
with grief at every moment,
lusting, grasping, trailing through the mud —
death's torments would be easier.
The storm of strife comes rolling
about the heart's sorrow;
long and hard it is to live with grief,
losing joy's citadel for food.
No warrior should wonder at this
for the arrow-reddened men:
the glad troop still grieves for women;
sweet joy heals sorrow's people.
Grief presses joy's barley-crop
for the gold-plain's ground;
men long for maidens' meetings,
worn down by them at every moment.
Nothing will deceive my love
in the teachings of desire;
let women hear the verses —
dear ones, while we speak of Gripsson.
Hrönvgviðr got grief from the blow,
as the famous one struck;
Hrómund smote him and wounded him;
the one led from his life.
Now hear Hrómund's glory
with honor and deeds:
many wolves he fed with prey;
the people go on Ólaf's mercy.
The bold one, quick, Gripsson asks,
he who fed the raven,
what this one was called by name,
who had fallen fallen against the prow.
"I am named cheerful Helgi, Hrönvgviðr's brother;
you gave with Þundr's spurs
a fatal path to the man."
"The faithful man shall receive his life,
though peoples curse it;
fed and healed, with the bear of fen
quickly and swiftly as the heart desires."
One man spoke on Hrönvgviðr's ship,
at the storm's third:
"This strife I intend to settle —
no one can beg this man's life.
"It will be better," he said, "to go
with the king's men to wealth;
I shall tell of what I have seen
in the north with this folk."
Hrómund leads the bright-eyed
Helgi freed with his folk;
the worthy one let him be cured;
people speak of Helgi the brave.
The warrior sails east to Sweden
on Hráfn's deep sound;
by the lord he gets honor in the prow;
two are there with the name of Hadding.
He defends the king's bow boldly
with boldness and valor,
his sword and armor trusts him,
the king's great deeds are resolved.
All Ólaf's brave men with the greatest deeds
loosen and press Heiðr's fetters;
the handsome ones ride by the bear's horses.
They turn and land west over the sea —
there warriors die;
men make for the islands to the south,
battles began widely.
Warriors chose great blows
with hatred's speech;
they laid waste and killed all with steel,
at times raised up a blazing fire.
The lord, quick, on one island began to raid
the coast-plundering;
the settlement grew angry at the long torment.
The people fled their homes from home
with haste;
the dangerous plan of the islanders
was to bring a meeting to crush with force.
The king's men owned land and livestock
within their bounds;
they drove fat goats and cattle to the shore.
The troop then, as the day went on,
found their men glad;
verses are made ready to speak.
The farmer stands at one smooth rock;
the young king they halted;
speaks and gladdened; told them his name rightly.
"Rich viking, know from our anger
what ages your people owe;
before now I get to you on ship and stern.
"The great crowd of warriors drifts from every sand;
they wish to part with the shining blade
the old Skjöldung people from goods and land."
"The man shouting here proves himself by warriors' wisdom —
the dangerous plan of the islanders
will not bring the people to the plain."
Warriors lifted him lightly with the king's counsel;
Gripsson reached the place
where the champion scolds him at the homestead.
"Who is this cunning man who betrays champions,
frightens the troop and the hard warhost,
what kind of fellow chitters and speaks?"
"Men know me by the Moon's name;
the cauldron's fire, unless you press this cottage
and fasten a little from the gold.
"There is no gain in going to a cottage and getting rings there —
it would be nearer to wake the draugr,
with strong works to go into the mound.
"Warriors mean to plunder me, but generosity fades;
your glories shall fall away;
go there with your women."
"The man clever enough may strike a trade with the knower of deeds;
your women, both of them,
take them as tribute — Grettir's legacy.
"Quick and true, if you tell me of the treasure and rings,
the journey is worthy of finding them —
enough glory, and to thrust into a coat of mail."
"Hunding's kin had brave men avenge a long time ago —
dark and useless for nothing —
a death-need in a narrow house.
"He was named Þráinn, who won Valland and was lord there —
the berserk who ruins men —
the dark-man's magic took Hlíf."
So they bent and folded the oak-trees together
with bravery —
they placed the draugr in the mound with gold.
Swords and gear, silver and gold
worth seeking there —
Þráinn has not had a long-desired meeting;
he got men nailed to the stake.
"Better I think to fight there where blades sing;
harsh and firm from kinsman's pressing,
Þráinn is full and crazed with magic."
"Why is it at all worth making the trip to the king's hall,
to find my way to the wide mound —
do you crowd the cowardly steps?"
"Spend the following six days going south —
then the dark man's lair may cool;
it will grow bright quickly when the waves lessen."
The oak-tree turned toward Ólaf's hall
by the Rhine's fire;
the old man took all his women;
the woman — strife faded from his breast.
Gripsson told the tale of the draugr and the gold in plenty;
the brave men drew the sails;
southward the glorious waves washed.
The worthy ones steered six days on Hráfn's plain;
the man spoke, equal to a hero:
"The mound of the draugr is now at the prow."
The worthy troop and the lord came to the flat foreign ground;
the troop learned the headland quickly;
all quickly and the mound was found.
Trusty men broke open the mound with strong counsel —
the berserk's hard lair —
and smashed the rock down to the earth.
Warriors went into the dark mound for four days;
gladly they got to the light
and could learn this magic-steering.
Swollen with hate, blue as Hel, on a wide chair —
grim and dark, the sorcery's school —
glowing Þráinn from the serpent's lair.
"Who shall be the bold king's man to run into the mound?
I shall let this honored tree
shine to choose three treasures."
Vóli the sorcerer answers the lord, who can boast much:
"No one wants to buy survival for treasure;
none will be found who wants to leap to it.
"The dark man, fierce, puffs out his cheeks and blows at the fire,
glotted with hostility and shielded his gums,
grey and blue about the mustache.
"Hunding's kin blows at hot red horns,
it has loaded the load with need —
he has men's corpses dead."
Hrómund the bold then speaks with a ringing voice:
"The hound would feel the wound deeply
if Kári's limb were strong.
"Most proper it would be for me to run,
to grip the dark draugr in the mound,
courage will serve against this companion.
"Quick with the sword, to draw first against the champion's dread —
nothing serves men to doze —
braving is strength, to save it against the villain."
For us the prow will clash against
— two are more than twenty-three —
the troll, if this one runs at all of them.
The man sinks and enters the mound with a rope —
enough was packed about the load's lode —
as if it were the greatest chill.
The fierce one, angry, gathers many a fine ring;
Gripsson strips gold from the draugr,
splendidly he means to clear it from the mound.
The warriors carry fine burdens up in the rope's end;
the man chose the burnt rings.
High and low — it is come to an end.
Ríma III
Mansöngr
The skalds who clarify verse
entertain silk-women;
they give their noses to this night and day
nearly at all moments.
I never speak such courtly words
to glad necklace-elms;
the wisest give me gold's shortage —
sorrow against all.
Their behavior and artistry
makes grief greatest in me.
Let us say that Gripsson carried
gold and silver in the rope.
Hrómund seemed to smell something from the mound;
time moves on;
it was the time then to kindle a fire
under his cauldron.
Fire was between his feet,
the cauldron full of bodies;
he has no appearance of any man —
just as is told of devils.
He seemed somewhat troublesome,
Þráinn in former ages;
he was first in Valland a king
and won everything with sorcery.
Early he was fierce in evil
in the bright time of youth,
and with grimness above every champion
he walked like Loki over the fields.
When he could no longer rule
the wealth of Þundr's wife,
he was set alive into the mound
and beside him the precious gold.
A sword on a post
he sees hanging above;
it will challenge the berserk
who draws it long from the lord.
There was never a better blade found
than this shining sword;
it is the noble Mistilteinn —
many a life it took from Þráni.
Gripsson was eager for the noise;
glowing from the serpent's lair;
he wants now to speak with the master of the house,
has moved himself forward from the seat.
Hrómund addressed the hate-grove
with words like these:
"I have seen no blacker hound
ruling great treasure."
Hrómund speaks with valor and might:
"I have sworn by rings,
this evening the lawbreaker asks for punishment —
I have set myself to this work.
"For me the mound is full of talk —
let no man believe in that anchor.
— It was no joy to look at the draugr —
How do you speak, old man?"
"Now my anger is well set;
let men believe that proven.
My grief is great and harsh —
but I can still manage somewhat.
"Nothing I know of your ways,"
Þráinn answers in torment —
"if you let this howler
suffer on his seat."
"I have stripped you of all wealth,
age-roarer aged in fury;
my ring and necklace so fine
and the good Mistilteinn."
"Do not say who wins
— he answers, the necklace-grove —
before you get out of the mound
sound from our meeting."
"Did you not see the sword-tree,
gathered harm I have with rings;
did you flinch, hateful hound —
what was in your eyes?
"Before the troll-thing should have deserved
the wealth to deny me;
I have taken all your riches away;
you have nothing to reckon."
The man, I hear, shameless in honor,
answered the champion fairly:
"I have become altogether soft,
if a single one shall plunder me."
"I am not stealing from the post of steel,"
the warrior spoke in shields,
"you battle-shout here with cunning words
but you can't stand up."
"Before I was able to come with a rush,
I was forced to yield to champions;
I will deny you sword and there,
look to yourself with me dead."
"Stand you up on your feet, unmoved,
the troll shall stumble;
much less is your trust
than what Máni the fellow said of you."
Your mind is very flat,
Hrómund speaks with vigor,
"crawl from the seat, you lazy wretch,
parted from all happiness."
"No one has the glory to fell me
with the shining hilt-wand;
I want to test valor against you,
if there is no plain way here."
Hrómund cast the villain then,
trusted boldness with his hands;
Þráinn was glad when he saw this,
released the heavy cauldron.
"Lie to yourself in your coward's sleep,
more cowardly than any woman;
come at me, black and dead —
the sword is out of my hand."
"Now the counsel is to go on his feet —
flee you the heart's draugr;
the day runs drearily toward night,
it darkens in the mound.
"The counsel is to stand up now
and test the magic-heat;
I cast my cauldron down —
come at me so to the grapple."
Gripsson looks at the blue villain,
goes to meet the draugr;
they run together and grapple
two strong ones in the mound.
With lurches goes the troll-hall's wretch,
everything nearby shakes;
that will teach the champion's worth
to come against Þráinn in strife.
Gripsson lets stone and tree
go upward, the noble one;
then the hateful one had to bow to the knee —
the cowardly wretch on the other foot.
"I stumble more now — you are strong,
stubborn man by the fires;
the other foot I fall now on,
it will be hard to get up."
Then the hair grew up from the corpse-stench,
the mound filling;
he came nearly into a tight place —
now Þráinn began to go wild.
Hrómund speaks gladly in his heart
— the crowd was turned away —:
"You are not like a human man,
no one can fell you."
He did not spare the elm's bow
as the evil one clawed;
they came in together, those lads,
giving each other great gasping.
He had cruel claws,
no one could give him thanks;
to Gripsson's son he let him go there,
grabbed hold above the nape.
Down over neck and shoulderblades
he raked with his palate-spike;
lets him be given a foreign standing,
loosens flesh from bones.
The glorious man protects himself;
the captive begins to go grey —
"does it sting a little on your sides?
Tell me if it turns blue!"
"I care nothing of the heart's mind,"
Hrómund speaks still more easily,
"where did the evil person's kin
come into the mound, I wonder.
"I find it said that to honor you
the options are few good ones;
I say the counsel is you don't fool me,
you damned cat's mother."
"Gunnlöð has not, by Gripr in town,
gotten herself such a son;
you are fed from a flat bitch-maid,
I reckon you a filly.
"Your courage's soul is frightened now,
you waver utterly from my grip,
you press yourself to my claw, old man,
though the old man has a nail on his way.
"I see that harm will come on you from this;
so shall I squeeze you,
you will never, necklace-Yggrr,
slip from my hands.
"Your back and spine will go blue
if both hands rake;
naked shall I, nail-Yggrr,
tear you apart with my nails."
It was very dark in the mound,
which could happen to that one;
with a foot-trick the ancient draugr
the sword-flourisher felled.
"You shall let your hateful life go,"
said the wound-weave's other, —
"now I have the draugr's shining sword
obtained for the second time."
"This was hard counsel for you,"
the man answers, now pale,
"with the shining blade you have reached joy —
that tips the game between us.
"So I have long guarded treasure
and lived in my mound;
it is not good, though good it be,
to trust one's treasures.
"The champion equally as himself
trusted this sword;
now shall it be to my harm —
noble Mistilteinn!"
"Tell me," said Gripsson,
"alone, you sorcerer,
how many men in battle
you struck with Mistilteinn."
"Sæmingr king in Sámsey was my name —
we sought each other grimly in battle —
he said then when the sword cut,
I would fall slowly.
"Sixty and seventeen summers more
I went on in viking raids,
and so spent every winter,
choosing men for death.
"A hundred times on the island
I struck with the pure blade;
men had to grow pale,
I never got a scratch."
"Your strong nature has long brought
suffering's need on peoples:
that is the highest work of good fortune
to hew you dead."
He swung noble Mistilteinn
with a great loan of power;
he struck it through the neck-bone,
the head flew from Þráinn.
It ends so for the loathsome one —
the praise of spear-senders;
he burned the man in fire upright,
turns out of the mound.
The lord asked Hrómund now,
who went into the mound:
"How did you and Þráinn make out
in the long hard grapple?"
"The grapple was well and went its way —
the bright sword gave that:
I took from him Heimdall's sword
with hard Mistilteinn."
Gripsson chose from the stone of his palm
what the champion sought in the mound:
the necklace and ring like Mistilteinn,
which seemed the finest treasures.
All of Ólaf's men got
countless gold burnt.
The door of the boat-shed for me, the Niflung runner —
north to Björgvin we land.
The king lays down his journey
and sits quiet in the land;
that glory went over ground and sea
that Gripsson won with his blade.
Warriors, I hear, the trusty burgess
lived by Serpent-halls.
The tale turns to Sweden in the east —
so shall the ríma fall.
Ríma IV
Mansöngr
Wise in verse I become, fallen toward
the fair speech below;
and so it is hard for me to beat a dance
about honor-woman Þór's daughter.
I have named a noted style,
new-brewed of Víðrir's gold;
the women get from flames much,
the verse grows soft from such.
It was near then in that ode
when they came home from the viking;
the lord settled himself gladly at the ground —
Gripsson became famous from the journey.
There was named one good man, Grundi —
he gave him with pride and might
the dog that is called Brokr;
he was both fierce and clever.
Hrómund gave him a ring with gold —
the dog's reward seemed full —
weighing an ounce and seven more;
that is more than two values.
The certain, wretched, distrusted
Vóli fellow, who was not proud,
killed that dear dog,
they dragged together at night.
Sword-Tyr was certain to take notice:
"Vóli, you have killed Hrókr;
some day I shall give you inside
all those tricks you play on me."
Sjóli owned two sisters,
both of them were clever:
Dagný was turned to deeds,
the other lady was known as Svanhvít.
Svanhvít was above the two sisters —
I may tell truly of both of them;
she bears power above the maiden-crown
between Vík and Hálogaland.
Warriors praised the ring-woman;
Hrómund makes himself dear to the lady;
he feared neither Vóli nor Bildr;
now no one finds peaceful joy.
The ring-lady spoke to Hrómund privately
at one time:
"Bildr and Vóli work enough tricks —
they often bring you before the king in strife."
"If you don't want to defend yourself
mighty sister's steel-flourisher,
no trolls frighten me;
I shall go as before to speak of you."
There, before the lord for the day,
Vóli speaks with this blow:
"Gripsson seduces the gold-Rán —
he makes you so great a shame."
The caught one got so sharp a tongue,
speaks before the king, lays his legs
against Hrómund, before a hateful report;
neither gives the other anything.
Until then the stubborn suspicion grows —
the man parts from the king's household;
so do all eight brothers —
they are now where his father rules.
The lord Ólaf at one time
called the young lady of the house with words:
"The champion is now driven from you
who gave you the greatest honor.
"You have opposed him here so
two loving brothers —
trusting their likely counsel,
and honored more lies than deeds."
"It has come clearly before me —
the champion is making you a fool;
I promise this, that the sword shall
stop your loving talk."
"Remember, lord, what happened —
the mighty troll sat in the mound;
neither you nor anyone else
dared go there except Hrómund alone?"
The lord was not easy to deal with:
"For those words you have said,
Gripsson shall have to stay
at the gallows-tree, though he be brave."
The sister went away angry;
the brother answers thus:
"The lord's heart is bent with madness;
sooner will Bildr and Vóli be hanged."
The lady seduced love anew
to the great man in the king's town;
Gripsson was not hasty;
he still went to speak with the maid as before.
Two Sjólars on Swedish ground —
troops held at this time;
they both had the name of Hadding;
Helgi became their captain.
Helgi the brave won victory
wherever he bore to battle's blade;
most feats he performed in glory —
his mistress was named Kára.
They send a challenge to all of Ólaf's men;
the lord shall with his troop
come over winter to the ice of Vánis;
wolves shall have prize there.
He means to take the noble fight freely
rather than flee his inheritance;
he prepares himself quickly for the sword-morning;
he addresses the brothers and Hrómund.
Hrómund said about both sides —
they should by no means follow the lord:
"Bildr is most famous and Vóli at fault —
they will win everything with the king."
The lord prepared himself as before,
the lady began to pale;
she raised herself toward Hrómund's yard —
her coming was a pleasure.
"Honor my prayer more,
necklace-Tyr," said the fair sister,
"than the changing of my brother's mind;
I want to ask your company.
"I want to give you one shield —
no better shield is found;
nothing will cut you harm or hurt
if you keep any bond to the shield.
"Bugnir is found no better than this one,"
said the ring-Náinn wealthy in gold,
"never lose the power's edge
while any of it yet stands."
Gripsson accepts the fine gift;
the white sister was glad of it;
the hero prepares himself wisely for the journey;
the woman does most good.
The fated moment rules most things;
he and all brothers journey;
the lord comes to Sweden's people;
the Swedish folk were already there.
In the morning when it was light for battle,
men armed themselves on the ice there;
Svíar and Northmen struck each other hard,
the sword began to break keenly.
Bildr was, when the match began,
beaten in Hell like any hound;
awful was the men's fall —
no man saw Vóli fellow.
Ólaf's sword in the arrow-storm
cuts through the coat of chain mail;
Hadding the king hit the lord —
they struck each other when the blade swung.
Ólaf's sword cuts the entire
lord's shoulder down from the arm;
Hadding was brought low by the blow —
the lord fell, wounded and sore.
Hrómund owned one tent alone;
on the other side he stood by the wide water.
Warriors got death and wounds;
the brothers armed themselves quickly then.
The man of deeds tells quickly:
"I had a bad dream last night;
everything does not go smoothly;
I am not going to the battle today."
All the brothers became impatient:
"This is the greatest shame —
to promise to give the lord assistance
and yet have no courage at all."
The brothers went into that sword
and their armor with small weapons;
every man lay dead from Hadding's troop
who shrank under their swords.
Helgi had a weapon there —
nowhere does it hold in iron;
Finnsleifr was that fine shield
that the mistress-man bears in strife.
Kára was she who had learned the art,
come up into the eagle-shape in the air;
she sang so with sorcery's step,
no one was able to defend himself.
She flew against the kin of Hrókr;
the weapon-storm grew from might,
the lives of those people were not long —
they looked to the swan's song there.
He struck first Högni and Gautr,
Hrolfr and Þröstr fell to the plain;
Haki, the same as Logi, in sword-noise,
strong Helgi and Angantýr.
The sorcerer's man felled warriors,
Gripsson goes out of the tent;
the man's heart for the dear thing was bold —
he saw his eight brothers dead.
"Now Helgi the brave has felled
famous brothers, and frightened his mother;
I am bound to avenge them;
my heart is filled with grief."
His buckle-place was made of steel,
proud shield which Svanhvít gave,
never did any coat of mail
come on him — he bore Mistilteinn.
The force of warriors was great;
Gripsson stands not still;
he hews men with the sword;
Hrómund's weather bent all there.
"Here is one come as Hrönvgviðr was,"
said Helgi the brave;
"you shall see to that sword now,
that the champion sought in the mound.
"Gripsson, come forward —
he who slays and strikes my men;
the blade will bite your breast and blood
to the hilt."
"There is nowhere the need to spur
Helgi the brave to the blow against him;
one or the other shall, I say,
lie dead now."
"Your sword is heavy and broad —
you'll hardly raise the steel straight;
do you want me to give you the weapon
to see if you can manage the fight?"
"You do not need, Helgi, here
to name cowardice to me;
I remember the blow Hrönvgviðr got —
the whole skull went apart."
"You have, warrior, ankle-bonds —
woven about your hands;
from that you get no wound;
is that true, you trust the lady.
"Take the shield-splinters from you —
that is a wretched gift-squandering;
know this, if the weapon is raised,
I shall give you one blow."
He gave little thought to the maid's word,
the buckle-strap he cast down on the ground;
with both hands he fights now,
regrets what the lady said.
Helgi raised the sharp edge,
struck it through the eagle's leg;
Kára nowhere, the cunning one, flew —
she crawled down to the ground and died.
Hrómund lifted the flame of battle:
"Helgi, you are having the greatest misfortune;
gone is your luck with the spear-flood —
you killed your own mistress."
It is not good to scrape the champion;
Gripsson dodged from the blow;
then the point came untouched,
and cut all along Hrómund's belly.
Helgi speaks as the troll of helmets
sank to the hilt down into the field:
"Gone now is my life —
I fared badly losing you."
Hrómund saw Helgi sink,
the corpse-wetness carried past the champion;
he let no time be slow with his hands,
hard to swing Mistilteinn.
The skull was split and the blue helmet —
the brain then lay on the sword;
the edge met at the jaws, hard —
great notches came in the blade.
Hrómund looks at the battle-field;
Helgi becomes soon dead.
Now may everyone who hears this
take the fourth game for himself.
Ríma V
Mansöngr
Love's game is weak and feeble,
it presses me hard in the breast;
so I sit pale at the silk-oak
belonging to my own nothing.
The man gets, when it is dear to him,
thankful words and mild;
that man is mad who strikes no
dancing of all kinds at all.
I find it late that the pure lady
wished to heal the cargo.
That was said that the stained post
Helgi the brave supported.
The sea-tiller's bite in the jaw-garden
Yggrr wielded Mistilteinn;
the sword-blade was cut in notches,
from the hard grinding.
The blade shook there — bound for Hrókr —
shields the Hadding crowd;
the wounded one began, and the keen troop
kept coming long against him.
The fully bold one lets the fallen men
be stripped swiftly —
Hrómund lets heads and feet
be cut from them.
Death caught everyone the blade cut;
quickly the dark night came.
Hadding's host goes from the battle —
the match was checked then.
He saw large, as the captain's troop
stood a man on the ice;
the champion knows that the sorcerer
has drawn a circle.
He has sacrificed and cut richly
a circle with his sorceries —
"it would be like winning such
for Vóli, my companion."
The hero, firm, sprang over the ring toward
Grímr's heir;
the hilt he had raised upward:
"What will Vóli do now?"
He came quickly there, had seen enough;
the champion's sword from his hand
he blew hard at the power's might,
and it broke away in the wall.
So it went with the trodden track —
the traitor was able to know it;
it broke then on the crack in the floor
and drove down to the ground.
The lame one says with lymska faith,
the spear he sent to:
"You are dead, now on your feet —
the sword fell from your hand."
The man with hard grip and seiga
ought to repay hatred's foal:
"You will be dead now, limp wretch" —
the fully bold one seized Vóli.
He missed the steel, but the eel's mocker
dealt heavy wounding;
denial of words, and Vóli's neck
was broken asunder.
There lay besides, not very good,
the sorcery-wise ogre;
the seam-vessel, wounded and weary,
settled nearer on the ice.
"Trustworthy lady, who was loyal to me,
I missed counsel for a time;
I have therefore now —
says that hero —
my fourteenth danger passed.
"Remain here," said the elm-arrow,
"all the brothers to crawl;
the hilt has slipped from my hand —
it disappeared in the deep water.
"Grief's grief, sorrow's burden,
the necklace-cutter approaches;
my harm is great and wretched,
greatest is the harm from the sword.
"My feet shall take the worthy burgess
quickly from the steel-clash:
for that I shall be better, when the blade fails,
never to wait in my life again.
"Worthy men in the weapon-stream —
the slain were paid in the fight;
the champion comes home and kindles smoke
alone in the tent."
The back flames up by frost and gut-fat —
the fires burn long —
the belly is open, and the gut below
all hanging from the body.
He pulls it in, and strips out the skin
with a fine gut-knife;
the firm champion took his steel-knife
and thrusts below with the point.
He tested below, as the king's son,
the rich pays its rent;
the cut belly — around it so stout —
he tears with a tough seam.
Two sisters with the brothers nearby
long sought the battle;
the fair maidens there to the vale
to visit the worthy champions.
The ladies met the good hero
who brought back bitter griefs;
the champion stood by the kindled fire,
his belly stitching seams.
"Why shall the foot, at swords' encounter,
have the night-wound?
Will you heal it, fair woman,
help a wounded man?"
"She is called," said the ring-Náinn,
"Hagall — he shall heal you;
a good woman is there, a champion's craft —
come and give him vigorous food."
The ladies went with the spear-grove
and brought Hagall the fellow;
the champion healed in a moment —
it is grimmer for every warrior.
The shrewd couple on the heathen book
healed Hrómund;
the woman drove to the vale and took
the wise one home, the brave one.
The Sjóli fellow, weary, wrapped,
came by necklace-branches;
he was fed and healed whole
by the house of a good farmer.
Hrómund found that the old woman can
sorcery from ladies;
her man won for the woman
and catches fish sometimes.
Right that year, as the man stands,
bold at the bright water,
he draws with a cut from the deep stream —
the man caught one pike.
The pike felt the blade-scratch
can spread with a great amount;
Mistilteinn with fine art
he found in the belly of the pike.
The hero-stream fills, then the spear-thane's leader
brought the necklace-cutter;
the spear-torrent was not silent,
when the lord took his sword.
That one was single, straight in battle —
the Svía with the powerful lord;
Hadding's man who was most harmful
is called Blind the Ill.
That man said he thought then
that Hrómund was in bad shape:
"Healing can be obtained and refreshment
from Hagall's clever woman."
"It will not be," said the lord, "that she
dares to hide Hrómund";
the son of Herja said he suspected —
"the household shall try that."
The great household went from the hall —
the host aimed for the farm long;
the old woman swore by Kjalarr and Þór
that nothing whatsoever would come there.
He comes from the hall with all the king's friend quickly —
"No troll," said the gold's one,
"will be as ugly as this draugr,
the same as a half-kin."
"The maid shall need to be searched out
among the people for a time."
Hrómund hid in the high hall
under a hot cauldron.
It was no hindrance when Blind came home —
who began to look for Hrómund;
he went like wind through the old bars,
but found none on the tracks.
When the man went from the yard,
he said to the bold woman:
"We find nothing at all on the journey;
let us go back and search again."
She recognized that a man had moved
the cauldron-knob in the center of the arch.
"Here are they," said the ring-Eir,
"Hrómund — stand on the floor.
"Now shall the man, as the people learn,
be brought in a woman's clothes;
you have strength enough to grind against,
to turn my quern."
The man stood in woman's garments,
grasped the stiff millstone-spindle;
Blind walked with his clever tricks
quickly about the house inside.
The millstone spindle he drew with such strength
he could not at all hold back;
he laughed a little but looked out still
at the lord's men badly.
The spear-Gautr who had won glory
found none with sorcery;
they went away, and the ring-luck
bade them thrive never.
"The lady is clever, and the tricky household
by the woman is not very proud;
the serving-woman there was not faithful,
who stood before by the loom."
The clever grindstone-staff wins
the king's champion's merriment;
the clever man nowhere finds
however often he searches.
Wickedly great, flat and wretched —
I hear nothing was won.
Let merriment leave and horn-stream
of Hár for the fifth time.
Ríma VI
Mansöngr
Wandering takes and hard craving
makes my back in the wind;
so I am turned from shoulders
toward the young silk-thread.
I walked out on the sand of salt
in the grey time of grief;
there lay a vessel by the fear-land
full of all kinds of sorrows.
There stood up on the prow
a half-hard crowd of women;
she bade me come in to her seat
on this grief-struck time.
It is so much day as she
grows sad at everything;
I came there down into the narrow craft
of Kjalarr on the hawk-ferry.
It drove me away from honor's harbor
by the counsel of sorrow's winds;
therefore I cannot bind the maid's name
in my verses.
I think sorrow will make the sweet dear one
want this late;
I endured rímur, third and two —
this one becomes the sixth.
The Story
Over the winter Blind had
many error-full dreams;
he told this to the Swedish kind —
from now it shall go into bridle.
Therefore he lost gladness and merriment;
things fell to the middle;
the man should tell his dream,
and Hadding the king should interpret.
"It was first in my waking sleep —
I saw a wolf running from the east;
it bit you such a wide wound,
the king could recognize it."
"A harmful wind will come from the clouds —
it will shake the king's power;
sparks bright will crash against me —
I go nearer to the fire."
"I dreamed that a wolf grew old
by Hagall fellow;
that one was not gentle in the dwellings —
it bit men on the ledge.
"It even tore you apart as me
and all the king's men;
the sight seemed terrifying —
what will this mean?"
"It is said about Hagall's household,
some kind of bear lying;
we have always had a life-labor
planned for him," said the lord.
"Then shall the bear burst on you
when you are prepared to wound it."
"That is the virtue that the dream steers —
boldly shall I explain that."
"From the south many swine ran,
a man, at your hall;
they began to dig hard in the ransom —
all of this realm."
"That will loose a channel from the sea —
the sun will shine in both;
the world rejoices with waking and fruit,
weather and cold will fade."
"There came from the north coal-black clouds
with claws and bent wings,
and with this broad settlement
they made all to fly away."
"Our houses shall all be raised —
I think that for good;
I built there one bright hall
where the old foundations stood."
"It was yet in one dream,
I want to tell the lord:
I saw a fine peace-strap
of the king lying about the realm."
"That long serpent seemed to me
lying on the sand before;
that will be a dragon of glorious form
thundering toward our land."
"Lóðurr's son was long,
I saw him running from the east;
he came over you and tore apart;
interpret this dream."
"There will come from the king at Hleiðr
a certain champion's words;
first the meeting will be angry
and then fall to settlement."
"I came there, lord, into the house
where hawks sat on seats;
featherless was your falcon
and sheds his skin everywhere."
"Many will come into the lord's hall
men from the rich land;
the weapons will all be yielded to you —
I shall be angry at that."
"Your dragon seemed to me driven on the flood,
floating in the nearer wave;
headless all the army stood
in the hot water below."
"I praise my lovely household
to learn more lands;
then the lord's face will fade —
the dream is not greater."
"I dreamed that a dragon's son
drew Hagall from Vánis;
Hrómund's linden-stream that blade
the noble green fence-fish."
"The eel comes there all up against it,
not small from the ground;
it is then wound in a net
and caught by the necklace-branch.
"The weapon sank in the cold water —
one can scarcely guess this;
whether Hrómund intends all of this —
the fear-full courage?"
I hear that there came to the king
many more strong dreams;
the lord then interpreted all at will,
but none so much as marks.
"You must, Blind, reveal to me
exactly so that nothing fades;
hard was the ring struck about your neck
of burnt metal.
"The paths rightly bent of the tired boat —
a short time to need —
it will be easy," said the lying man,
"to interpret such dreams."
"That is the gallows that marks an old horse —
I think it will diminish below;
likely shall it go for us both similarly —
we are both doomed."
Hrómund was healed at Hagall's,
whole and well to go.
Immediately Ólaf, clad in iron,
wants to roast the wolf.
A crowd of men the lord draws —
glory-man in his troop;
the warriors' way lies through Sweden;
their swords I think reddened.
They came unawares one night
on all Hadding's warriors;
many trumpets sounded high —
the weapons are laid sharp.
The lord wakes not before
outside I hear him lying;
the house is broken, the doors hewn
at the resting-hall of the lord.
Hadding the king calls for his men
and leaped in his shirt long:
"Who is this with harshness running
thinking of battle in the night?"
"Hrómund Gripsson is that one
who has come into the bower;
he makes champions have the cold
and splits helmet and armor."
"You shall do wonderfully well,
though my warriors fall;
before they died for us in Hel —
your eight brothers."
"Remember, lord, that little —
my grief is great in my heart;
that shall be your last night,
when the sword serves in the bright one."
"Nowhere has the Búðlungr's coat of mail been found —
the hat of Friðr is ready;
I shall still while the fox gnaws
seek no settlement of any kind."
A man leaped up then alone —
quickly he gripped for weapons;
that was the king's bed-man —
a giant and troll in stature.
Gripsson strikes gladly to the beam —
the song rang in the steel spear;
then the seam-end slipped off him —
the edge of Mistilteinn.
Hadding defends himself with the heroic ship;
Hrómund came at him;
yet the lord was not wounded;
it seemed a wonder to most.
Every blow at the lord
that Hrómund should have struck —
the sword came flat on the shield,
it sang in the lord's brow.
The club the champion used well,
threw like Bæsing's likeness;
then comes at last he beats him to Hel —
that rich lord.
Hrómund speaks as Hadding's host
has now been subdued;
"Such a lord has been lost here —
I saw none more famous.
"That prince bears glory and might
as would suit a king of old;
I never heard of such a battle;
if I had reached him with my weapons."
Every man was dead on Hadding's floor
who had readied himself to defend;
then the hateful joy was found —
his arts are gone.
The wretched man who was named Blind
was bound with a cord,
hanged on the gallows and honor slain —
he got near to this.
Warriors took the burnt treasure
and carried it on many horses;
men went from Sweden home
adorned with the greatest victory.
They went with the king — fairer than a speck —
the ground of bright drinks;
Hrómund was given the ring-elm
who gladly wished to own him.
Svanhvít he married after that —
the man loved her wholly;
the woman loves the honored man
well as faithfulness could.
Hrómund Gripsson leaves the noble one
the highest man in the realm;
he and Svanhvít had sons and daughters —
that was like kings.
Never trust in the lord's brow —
such kinship they took;
from those champions have come
the rich king-lineages.
The verse begs the courtly ladies —
I cannot deny them that;
I have glossed gladness for a time:
Gríplur shall be their name.
May these rímur receive now —
I am worn out from speaking;
great silence and thirteen booths —
there shall the verse be outside.
Translated from Old Icelandic by the New Tianmu Anglican Church (NTAC). Good Works Translation. Source: Rímnasafn: Samling af de ældste islandske Rimer, Volume I, edited by Svend Grundtvig and Jón Sigurðsson (Copenhagen, 1905), pp. 351–408. Text based primarily on manuscript A (AM 610, 4°, copied by Jón Gíssurarson), with variants from B (Wolfenbüttler manuscript), C, and D (Accessoria 22). The cycle is also known as Hrómundar rímur Gripssonar. The underlying saga (Hrómundar saga Gripssonar) is derived from these rímur, not vice versa.
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Source Text
Griplur — Rímnasafn Vol. I, pp. 351–408
Rímnasafn: Samling af de ældste islandske Rimer, Volume I. Edited by Svend Grundtvig and Jón Sigurðsson. Copenhagen: S. L. Møller, 1905.
I. Fyrri þá at ek fengunst við / fornar rímur at telja, / leiz mer þessi leikrinn mið / langar stundir dvelja. // Orðið hefr roer einka-leitt / Ossa bland um tíma, / lok er því at ek nenni neitt / nær til gamans at ríma.
[Rímur II–VI — Full text in vol1_source/12_griplur.txt]
Manuscipts: A = AM 610, 4° (Jón Gíssurarson's copy); B = Wolfenbüttler manuscript (defective, from memory); C = Accessoria 22; e = AM 146, 8° (only Ríma I, stanzas 1–36 and Ríma VI, stanzas 37–68 survive).
Colophon
Gríplur is a six-ríma cycle on the legend of Hrómund Gripsson — a hero known from skaldic verse but whose original saga is lost, preserved now only through these rímur. The cycle covers Hrómund's slaying of the berserk Hrönvgviðr, his descent into the burial mound to fight the draugr Þráinn and claim the sword Mistilteinn, the ice-battle in which he loses all eight brothers, and his final victory over the Swedish king Hadding. Gríplur are among the oldest surviving rímur cycles and among the most violent.
Good Works Translation from Old Icelandic by the New Tianmu Anglican Church with the assistance of Claude (Anthropic), 2026. Translated from the Rímnasafn Vol. 1 edition. The Old Icelandic source text follows below.
Compiled and formatted for the Good Work Library by the New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026.
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Source Colophon
Source transcription from Rímnasafn Vol. I, Grundtvig and Sigurðsson (eds.), 1905. Full OCR text: Tulku/rimur-tools/vol1_source/12_griplur.txt.
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