Of the fowl and the beast;
But the witch, for her share,
Takes the best of the fare
And the witch shall be fed
With the king of the dead,
When she rides in the van
Of the slayers of man,
With the King."

And King Harold dreamed a dream. And he saw before him his brother,
St. Olave. And the dead, to the Scald-King sang this song:

"Bold as thou in the fight,
Blithe as thou in the hall,
Shone the noon of my might,
Ere the night of my fall!

How humble is death,
And how haughty is life;
And how fleeting the breath
Between slumber and strife!

All the earth is too narrow,
O life, for thy tread!
Two strides o'er the barrow
Can measure the dead.

Yet mighty that space is
Which seemeth so small;
The realm of all races,