BONDMAID: It is vain things' beguilling That methinks I behold, Or the ending of all things, As ye ride, O ye dead men, Smiting with spurs Your horses' sides? Or may dead warriors Wend their ways homeward? THE DEAD: No vain things' beguiling Is that thou beholdest, Nor the ruin of all things; Though thou lookest upon us, Though we smite with spurs Our horses' sides; Rather dead warriors May wend their ways homeward. Then went the bondmaid home, and told Sigrun, and sang-- BONDMAID: Go out, Sigrun From Sevafell, If thou listest to look on The lord of thy people! For the mound is uncovered Thither is Helgi come, And his wounds are bleeding, But the king thee biddeth To come and stay That stream of sorrow. So Sigrun went into the mound to Helgi, and sang-- SIGRUN: Now am I as fain Of this fair meeting, As are the hungry Hawks of Odin, When they wot of the slaying Of the yet warm quarry, Or bright with dew See the day a-dawning. Ah, I will kiss My king laid lifeless, Ere thou castest by Thy blood-stained byrny. O Helgi, thy hair Is thick with death's rime, With the dew of the dead Is my love all dripping; Dead-cold are the hands Of the son of Hogni; How for thee, O my king, May I win healing? HELGI: Thou alone, Sigrun Of Sevafell, Hast so done that Helgi With grief's dew drippeth; O clad in gold Cruel tears thou weepest, Bright May of the Southlands, Or ever thou sleepest; Each tear in blood falleth On the breast of thy lord, Cold wet and bitter-sharp Swollen with sorrow. Ah, we shall drink Dear draughts and lovely, Though, we have lost Both life and lands; Neither shall any Sing song of sorrow, Though in my breast Be wounds wide to behold: For now are brides In the mound abiding; Kings' daughters sit By us departed. Bow Sigrun arrayed a bed in the mound, and sang-- SIGRUN: Here, Helgi, for thee A bed have I dight, Kind without woe, O kin of the Ylfings! To thy bosom, O king, Will I come and sleep soft, As I was wont When my lord was living. HELGI: Now will I call Naught not to be hoped for Early or late At Sevafell, When thou in the arms Of a dead man art laid, White maiden of Hogni, Here in the mound: And thou yet quick, O King's daughter! Now needs must I ride On the reddening ways; My pale horse must tread The highway aloft; West must I go To Windhelm's bridge Ere the war-winning crowd Hall-crower (4) waketh.