Ragnar Lodbrok´s Death-Song

[Dept of PMM Artists & things]

We hewed with blades.
The warrior has carried out
fifty-one host-battles.
Least of all guessed I,
that it should befall me
(who, young, took blade to redden it)
that another king should overcome me.
The gods must invite me,
one should not complain of dying.

I am joyous at ending,
the goddesses bid me home,
who, from Herjan´s hall,
Oðinn has sent to me;
gladly shall I, in high-seat,
drink ale with Æesir:
All hope of life is gone,
laughing shall I die.

From the Krákumál

Image: Hugo Hamilton, 1830

[Dept of PMM Artists & things]

We struck with our swords!
Why should a warrior cower
before the ranks, when braving
the blizzard of spearpoints?
He who mourns his demise has
never fed meat often
to eagles in the edge-game.
It’s hard to urge on weaklings;
no coward takes courage
from his craven heart.

We struck with our swords!
I say it’s right for a lad
to dare to dash at foemen
as they draw swords together.
Let thane not shrink from thane—
that long was the warriors’ way;
maids’ darlings should be dauntless
in the din of swords, always.

We struck with our swords!
It seems to me an ordeal
that our fates we must follow;
few escape the Norns’ craft.
I didn’t imagine Aelle
as the end of my life,
when I fed blood-falcons
and forced keels through the water;
we gave wolves worthy payment
widely, in Scotland’s bays.

We struck with our swords!
My soul is glad, for I know
that Balder’s father’s benches
for a banquet are made ready.
We’ll toss back toasts of ale
from bent trees of the skulls;
no warrior bewails his death
in the wondrous house of Fjolnir.
Not one word of weakness
will I speak in Vidrir’s hall.

We struck with our swords!
The sons of Aslaug all would
rouse the wrath of Hild here
with their ruthless sword-blades,
if they fathomed fully
how far I have traveled,
how so many serpents
stab me with their poison.
My sons’ hearts will help them:
they have their mother’s lineage.

We struck with our swords!
Soon my life will have passed;
Goinn scars me sorely,
settles in my heart’s hall;
I wish the wand of Vidrir
would wound Aelle, one day.
My sons must feel great fury
that their father is put to death;
my daring swains won’t suffer
in silence when they hear this.

We struck with our swords!
I have stood in the ranks
at fifty-one folk-battles,
foremost of the lance-meet.
Never did I dream that
a different king could ever
be found, braver than me—
I bloodied spears when young.
Aesir will ask us to feast;
no anguish for my death.

I desire my death now.
The disir call me home,
whom Herjan hastens onward
from his hall, to take me.
On the high bench, boldly,
I’ll drink beer with the Aesir;
hope of life is lost now,
laughing shall I die!

© Copyright 2009 by Ben Waggoner.

Distribution for non-commercial purposes is allowed
as long as the content is not altered and this notice is not removed.

These are the final eight stanzas (out of twenty-nine) of Ben Waggoner´s rendition of Ragnar's death song.
Look for the whole poem -- and several sagas -- in his book: "The Sagas of Ragnar Lodbrok"