Though scarce he knew it,
It clanging broke.
Then Fridthjof spoke,
His lance well aiming,
While loud exclaiming:
"A death-bird here,
Enchained I bear:
If once set; flying,
Then low is lying
Thy coward head.
By Loke led
Thy fear abuseth;
My lance, refuseth

A coward's blood;
It is too good
For food so craven;
Its worth be graven
On funeral stone,
But not upon
A name which beareth
The stain thine weareth.
One exploit brave
Sank 'neath the wave;
The next one failed thee,
Nor aught availed thee;
Thy bow rust broke,
Not thou. The stroke,
When I aspire,
Is set much higher,