'Tis time our bands we gather.
Ye Chieftains disencumber
Your eyes of clogging slumber;
Ye mighty friends of Attil,
The far-renown'd in battle!

Thou Har, who grip'st thy foeman
Right hard, and Rolf the bowman,
And many, many others,
The forky lightning's brothers!
Wake--not for banquet-table!
Wake--not with maids to gabble!
But wake for rougher sporting,
For Hildur's {40} bloody courting.

Now food forego and drinking;
On war be ye all thinking,
To serve the king who've bound ye
For roof and raiment found ye;
Reflect there's prize and booty
For all who do their duty;
Away with fear inglorious,
If ye would be victorious!

Great Rolf, the land who shielded,
And who its sceptre wielded,
Who freely fed and paid us,
With mail and swords array'd us,
Now lies on bier extended,
His life by treachery ended--