Long ago, in lament-years
When battles oft, made blood as tears,
Quickly came, the Kyring brave,
Cursed was never, by king nor slave.
To ford the fjord, so forth he came,
As by the king, and bade by name
He was called for, and went to the king,
And offered then, an ornate ring.

"Here," the king, so heartf'lly said,
"The runes hath wrote, 'the Rik will be dead';
'The land shall lay, in lament dire,
Unless I find, that Loki's fire.'
A Torch, I'm told, is truly hidden,
Which is why, I've wailing bidden
Of you to come, I yearn that thou,
Shall find the fire, and find it now.

“For, I fear, that Freyja’s harp
Is by some devils, brands all sharp
Thus besieged, and balances threatens
Forced by fearsome, foesome cretins.
Oh, the world, it wonders why
Seeks this evil see it die.
Ragnarok I rarely thought
Would ever upon this earth be brought.”

The Kyring thought, and calmly spake,
"To quell thy fear, this quest I'll take."
And off the Kyring, awfully brave,
The land did seek, the lord to save.
Through and through, he thought at last,
The quest was dead, but doubt he cast.
For suddenly, a spell appeared:
A rabbit rose, so roughly-eared -

"The harp is guarded, greatly by
A fleet of fiends, - you'll fiercely die.
The harp you'll free after felling the folk.
And you must lash out, lives to choke.
Yet first the place, which affords the lyre,
Must first be found by Loki‘s fire.
Come and we shall, wind to where,
The earth is fire and fire the air.”

To the cave, of creepy kind,
Kyring and hare, did hotly wind.
The Kyring broke the barred door
And took the task no easy chore.
So thus hare, did happy hail,
And bound away, with bushy tail.
The Kyring charged, the charring hall,
Cut down his foes, with death did they fall.

The last of fiends, their life did fade,
And Loki's fire's, find was made.
The Kyring caught the carved fire,
And set off then to seek the lyre.
Brighter burned the burning flame
As closer to the cave he came,
Until there lay the lyre’s lair
And evil got it’s gruesome share.

Back to the king, he barely made,
For food and mead, was his fairest shade.
The King did kindly, cast his ring,
Toward the warrior, a wond'rous thing.
Then off, the Kyring, in awe regarded.
And his trip, against trouble guarded,
Took to the sea, and sailed away,
To search the seas, where salvation lay.

"Where was I last night, when all the spirits did appear?
Where was I when Harald rose and said 'Is Brynwulf here?'
How could I have fallen under, with everyone awake?
The night was just so soothing - a leaf upon a lake.

Where was I last night, when all the spirits did appear?
Where was I when the dead did rise, the priest and judge and peer?
How could I have fallen under, with everyone awake?
The night was just so soothing - a leaf upon a lake.

Where was I last night, when all the spirits did appear?
Souls, they lifted from the ground, with countenences drear'.
"On," they said, "We're moving, now - it's time to leave the grave,"
"On," they smiled, "To find a fresher resting spot we crave."

"I took a glance toward the hills,
My gaze wandered haplessly;
A mist I saw, in human form,
Fled from sight, so I did see.

Ran I to the top of the hill,
Hearing naught but whispy wind;
At the hills broad base saw I then
Three hundred whisps all akin.

One I saw did gaze up at me,
Moaning in a chilling tone;
All the whisps then did fade at once,
Wandered I, then, all alone."

Ec wæs wiþ þa Goþic cyng, Cyng Friðuric þa Fær,
Hù one day went a'riding, Rode he swyft þrù gras ond ær;
Ec did deftly follow he, Hù had no scyld or spear,
Only honor ond his sword, A sword of styl ond fear;
Goþmundyng he called it ðus, Đe Scandza brand of old,
Held by Swesmund, hark'ning back, A blade of steel ond gold;
Wiþ the sword had Swesmund fought, Ða Vandal ræders strong,
And armed along wiþ ardent lords, Hù longed for battle's þrong;
Now Friðuric þa Fær wæs he, Hwæt scared his foes to fright,
To swear to see þa line of Swesmund, Severing þa night;
Ðen upon þa open field, Did Friðuric ðus see,
Vandals by þa fistful, Faring as well as Vandals be;
As a hunter ardently, Attacks his quarry quick,
Did Friðuric forego a speech, And spurred into þa þic;
Quickly did his cavalry, Come wiþ him, while ðey cried -
"Deaþ to Frið'ric's dire foes, For all his foes have died!"
Wiþ a charge, I truly tell, Ðe Cyng did drive ðem back,
Hunting down þe deadly bandits, Bearing his attack;
Never more þe monsters came, Nor could after þat day,
For Friðuric and Goþmundyng, Gave them a Goþic slay.

Fair the fall, she forthcome is,
Cool the air and quick the wind;
Soon the sun, he'll sink from sight,
Sleep in shrouds the slumber soft.

Resting in night's long, drowsy shawl
I wrap in sleep myself withal;
Thus closing my eyes,
In a sleepy guise -
My soul flies,
Ne'er to fall.

Fear's form,
Ferments in minds fearful,
Tricking kings out of truce;
Thought and theory
Thrive in smart thinking,
Tossing fear to the tide.

Come the rains now when we need it most,
Coast and valley do yearn for a drink;
Sinking ever with arms extended,
Fended we for months on end;
Rending clothes from direst heat,
Meet we should greet the rain with a song,
Thronging outdoors to where we belong.

Fair thy skin and bright thy eyes,
All the more to hypnotize,
Struggle I stifle my cries,
And to hold my tongue;
I can hardly breathe or speak,
Only sit and be but meek,
Wishing, O, thy love to seek -
Thus my song I've sung.