Ingibjorg's Lament

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.