I do not crave the blood-speech of the battle tongues;
I would weave weapons' woe.
I rode across Njord's pasture,
My steed thundering over the world worm's burrow,
In search of green pastures of my own.
My parents live in the hall of the daughter
of the thunder-god's companion.
My husband and my son are Freyja's guests.
Our lands feed the milk-givers of our foes
And I have no weaving-frame to offer
To my dear daughter Dagrun.
The father-god of the shield trees
Vowed that those trees and their saplings
Would thrust their roots into the west-land valleys.
How then shall I cry craven?
No sword-swinger I - barely can I thrust a spear,
Yet if any home I have, it lies here.