I sing of the tales of the wanderer
The rider of Yggdrasill
He gave up an eye into Mimir's well
Where deeply, he drank his fill
For nine long nights,
old Hárr, hung he In search of the spoken spell
The runes that he found drew sounds for man And down,
from the tree, he fell
A snake, he slid through Gunnloð's court
The mead of poetry sought
Three sips, and he fled as eagle's wing
By Suttung, was never caught
Two sticks on a beach Hárbarð had found
His brothers heard his call
He gave his own breath and his blood to the wood
And told them of his Hall
Valhalla holds the Einherjar
Who'll fight on Vigrið plain.
As fenrir sinks his fangs to the bone
The life of Odin will wane
Fear not, my kin, of the Ragnarók
For Fimbultýr truly has won
He saw his own death at the end of time
And whispered this to his son