For unseldom the Summer sun curseth the Dale
With the tears thrust aback and the unuttered wail.
Forsooth o'er-well
The tale may we tell:
'T is the spear and the sword
And the House of the Sward.
The bright and the best
Have gone to their rest,
And our eyes are blind
Their eyes to find.
In mead and house wend we because they were stayed,
And we stand up because in the earth were they laid.
Would ye call them aback
Then, to look on your lack?
Nay, we would that their tale
From our hearts ne'er should fail.
This then maketh you sad,
That such dear death they had?
This night are we sad
For the joy that we had,
And their memory's beginning
Great grief must be winning.
But while weareth away,
And e'en woe waxeth gay.
In fair words is it told,
Weighed e'en as fine gold;
Sweet as wind of the south
Grows the speech in the mouth.
And from father to son speeds the tale of the true,
Of the brave that forbore that the brethren might do.
When this was sung then each man went home to his house. But it is said that these staves were made by Osberne, and that he taught them to the Western men as well as to the Eastern.
