Dagny.
But needs must thou; honourable men were thy sons, one and all; a song must be made of them, and that can none of our kin but thou.
Örnulf.
[Looks inquiringly at Sigurd.] To sing? What thinkest <g>thou</g>, Sigurd? Sigurd. Meseems it is but meet; thou must e'en do as she says. Dagny. Thy neighbours in Iceland will deem it ill done when the grave-ale is drunk over Örnulf's children, and there is no song to sing with it. Thou hast ever time enough to follow thy sons. Örnulf. Well well, I will try it; and thou, Dagny, give heed, that afterwards thou mayst carve the song on staves. The men approach with the torches, forming a group around him; he is silent for a time, reflecting; then he says:
Bragi's[1] gift is bitter
when the heart is broken;
sorrow-laden singer,
singing, suffers sorely.
Natheless, since the Skald-god
gave me skill in song-craft,
in a lay loud-ringing
be my loss lamented!
[Rises.
- ↑ Bragi, the god of poetry and eloquence.
