What if you had to write a poem to save your life? Could you do it?
The Saga called “Egil’s Saga” tells how Egill Skallagrímsson, captured by Erik Bloodaxe and sentenced to death, wins his life by composing a poem praising Eric’s deeds in battle.
Egill was a great Viking warrior and poet, who had fallen out with Erik Bloodaxe and his wife Gunnhildur, due to arguments about inheritance for Egil’s wife. This led to slayings of Erik’s relatives and magical curses made between them.
Egill found himself and his men stranded in North Umbria around 950 AD, where Eric Bloodaxe was king, so Egill ventured to the king to ask for forgiveness. The king was about the execute him on the spot but was persuaded to allow Egill to live the night, and present an epic poem about King Erik by morning.
The next morning Egill presented a written poem in honor of King Erik and his great deeds. Egill recited the poem in the kings hall before the entire court, and at the end of it this king granted Egill his life, on the condition to never return before the king while he lived.
The poem is named “Höfuðlausn”, in English “Head Ransom”. It is a long poem and it is the first known poem in Nordic literature to use end rhymes.
Below is the poem from Egil’s Saga, first the original Old Norse text and then translated into English by Hermann Palsson and Paul Edwards (Penguin, 1976).
____________
Vestr fórk of ver,
en ek Viðris ber
munstrandar mar,
svá er mitt of far;
drók eik á flot
við ísa brot,
hlóðk mærðar hlut
míns knarrar skut.
Buðumk hilmir loð,
þar ák hróðrar kvoð,
berk Óðins mjoð
á Engla bjoð;
lofat vísa vann,
víst mærik þann;
hljóðs biðjum hann,
því at hróðr of fann.
Hygg, vísi, at
vel sómir þat,
hvé ek þylja fet,
ef ek þogn of get;
flestr maðr of frá,
hvat fylkir vá,
en Viðrir sá,
hvar valr of lá.
Óx hjorva glom
við hlífar þrom,
guðr óx of gram,
gramr sótti fram;
þar heyrðisk þá,
þaut mækis ó?,
malmhríðar spó?,
sú vas mest of ló?.
Vasat villr staðar
vefr darraðar
of grams glaðar
geirvangs raðar;
þars í blóði
enn brimlá-móði
vollr of þrumði,
und véum glumði
Hné folk á fit
við fleina hnit;
orðstír of gat
Eiríkr at þat.
Fremr munk segja,
ef firar þegja,
fró?gum fleira
til frama þeira,
óxu undir
við jofurs fundi,
brustu brandar
við bláar randar.
Hlam heinsoðul
við hjaldrroðul,
beit bengrefill,
þat vas blóðrefill;
frák, at felli
fyr fetilsvelli
Óðins eiki
í éarnleiki.
Þat vas eggja at
ok odda gnat;
orðstír of gat
Eiríkr at þat.
Rauð hilmir hjor,
þar vas hrafna gjor,
fleinn hitti fjor,
flugu dreyrug spjor;
ól flagðs gota
fárbjóðr Skota,
trað nipt Nara
náttverð ara.
Flugu hjaldrs tranar
á hræs lanar,
órut blóðs vanar
benmó?s granar,
sleit und freki,
en oddbreki
gnúði hrafni
á hofuðstafni.
Kom gríðar læ
at Gjalpar skæ;
bauð ulfum hræ
Eiríkr of sæ.
Lætr snót saka
sverð-Freyr vaka,
en skers Haka
skíðgarð braka;
brustu broddar,
en bitu oddar,
bó?ru horvar
af bogum orvar.
Beit fleinn floginn,
þá vas friðr loginn,
vas almr dreginn,
varð ulfr feginn;
stózk folkhagi
við fjorlagi,
gall ýbogi
at eggtogi.
Jofurr sveigði ý,
flugu unda bý;
bauð ulfum hræ
Eiríkr of sæ.
Enn munk vilja
fyr verum skilja
skapleik skata,
skal mærð hvata;
verpr ábrondum,
en jofurr londum
heldr hornklofi;
hann’s næstr lofi.
Brýtr bógvita
bjóðr hrammþvita,
muna hodd-dofa
hringbrjótr lofa;
mjok’s hó?num fol
haukstrandar mol;
glaðar flotna fjol
við Fróða mjol.
Verpr broddfleti
af baugseti
hjorleiks hvati,
hann es baugskati;
þróask hér sem hvar,
hugat mælik þar,
frétt’s austr of mar,
Eiríks of far.
Jofurr hyggi at,
hvé ek yrkja fat,
gótt þykkjumk þat,
es ek þogn of gat;
hrœrðak munni
af munar grunni
Óðins ægi
of joru fægi.
Bark þengils lof
á þagnar rof;
kannk mála mjot
of manna sjot;
ór hlátra ham
hróðr bark fyr gram;
svá fór þat fram,
at flestr of nam.
_________________________
By sun and moon
I journeyed west,
My sea-borne tune
From Odin’s breast
My sing-ship packed
With poet’s art:
It’s word-keel cracked
The frozen heart.
And now I feed
With an English King:
So to the English mead
I’ll word-mead bring,
Your praise my task,
My song your fame,
If you but ask
I’ll sound your name.
These praises, King,
Won’t cost you dear
That I shall sing
If you will hear:
Who beat and blazed
Your trail of red,
Till Odin gazed
Upon the dead.
The scream of swords,
The clash of shields,
These are true words
On battlefields:
Man sees his death
Frozen in dreams,
But Eirik’s breath
Frees battle-streams.
The war-lord weaves
His web of fear,
Each man receives
His fated share:
A blood-red sun’s
The warrior’s shield,
The eagle scans
The battlefield.
As edges swing,
Blades cut men down.
Eirik the King
Earns his renown.
Break not the spell
But silent be:
To you I’ll tell
Their bravery:
At clash of kings
On carrion-field
The red blade swings
At blue-stained shield.
When swords anoint
What man is saved?
Who gets this point
Is deep engraved:
And men like oak
From Odin’s tree,
Few words they spoke
At that iron-play.
The edges swing,
Blades cut men down.
Eirik the King
Earns his renown.
The ravens dinned
At this red fare,
Blood on the wind,
Death in the air;
The Scotsmen’s foes
Fed wolves their meat,
Death ends their woes
As eagles eat.
Carrion birds fly thick
To the body stack,
For eyes to pick
And flesh to hack:
The raven’s beak
Is crimson-red,
The wolf goes seek
His daily bread.
The sea-wolves lie
And take their ease,
But feast the sly
Wolf overseas.
Valkyries keep
The troops awake,
There’s little sleep
When shield-walls shake,
When arrows fly
The taut bow-string,
To bite or lie
With broken wing.
The peace is torn
By flying spears,
When bows are drawn
Wolves prick their ears,
The yew-bow shrills,
The edges bite,
The warrior wills
His men to fight
His arrows fly
Like swarms of bees
To feast the sly
Wolf overseas.
I praise the King
Throughout his land,
And keenly sing
His open hand,
His hand so free
With golden spoil:
But vice-like, he
Grips his own soil.
Bracelets of gold
He breaks in two
And, uncontrolled,
Pours gifts on you:
The lavish King
Loads you with treasure,
And everything
Is for your pleasure.
On his golden arm
The bright shield swings:
To his foes, harm:
To his friends, rings;
His fame’s a feast
Of glorious war,
His name sounds east,
From shore to shore.
And now my lord,
You’ve listened long
As word on word
I built this song:
Your source is war,
Your streams are blood,
But my springs pour
Great Odin’s flood.
The praise my lord
This tight mouth broke,
The word-floods poured,
The still tongue spoke,
From my poet’s-breast
These words took wing:
Now all the rest
May learn to sing.
________________
I hope you liked it and learned something new.
A.G. Munson
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