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Egil's Saga
Egil's Saga, translated by Hermann Palsson and Paul Edwards (Penguin, 1976).
This extract from an Icelandic saga tells how the hero Egil avoids extreme punishment from the last Viking king of York the infamous Erik (or Eirik) Bloodaxe by declaiming a poem dripping with praise of the king:
An Ivarr
who ruled at Jorvik,
Cut an Eagle
on the back of Aella.
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.
Where can I stay?
Accommodation in York.
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