Page:The Prose Edda (1916 translation by Arthur Gilchrist Brodeur).pdf/199

'Now are we come

To the king's abode

Of mercy bereft

And held as bond-maids;

Clay eats our foot-soles,

Cold chills us above;

We turn the Peace-Grinder:

'T is gloomy at Fródi's.

'Hands must rest,

The stone must halt;

Enough have I turned,

My toil ceases:

Now may the hands

Have no remission

Till Fródi hold

The meal ground fully.

'The hands should hold

The hard shafts,

The weapons gore-stained,—

Wake thou, Fródi!

Wake thou, Fródi,

If thou wouldst hearken

To the songs of us twain

And to ancient stories.

'Fire I see burning

East of the burg,

War-tidings waken,

A beacon of warning:

A host shall come

Hither, with swiftness,

And fire the dwellings

Above King Fródi.