Hwaet!
The icy teeth of the frost giant Clamp cruelly down on the mead hall.
Hothur has us In his thrall.
House-Karls, quick, Fetch fir logs!
Stoke up the fire In the hearth!
We’ll pour full measures Of strong mead
Into our drinking horns And sing sagas
Of bold heroes Outfacing past winters
Till the giant relents And ice turns to rain.
