The time passed away in work and song, in talk and ramble, in friendly fight and brotherly aid. I would not forge for myself armour of heavy mail like theirs, for I was not so powerful as they, and depended more for any success I might secure, upon nimbleness of motion, certainty of eye, and ready response of hand. Therefore I began to make for myself a shirt of steel plates and rings; which work, while more troublesome, was better suited to me than the heavier labour. Much assistance did the brothers give me, even after, by their instructions, I was able to make some progress alone. Their work was in a moment abandoned, to render any required aid to mine. As the old woman had promised, I tried to repay them with song; and many were the tears they both shed over my ballads and dirges. The songs they liked best to hear were two which I made for them. They were not half so good as many others I knew, especially some I had learned from the wise woman in the cottage; but what comes nearest to our needs we like the best.
The king sat on his throne Glowing in gold and red; The crown in his right hand shone, And the gray hairs crowned his head.
His only son walks in, And in walls of steel he stands: Make me, O father, strong to win, With the blessing of holy hands.”
He knelt before his sire, Who blessed him with feeble smile His eyes shone out with a kingly fire, But his old lips quivered the while.
“Go to the fight, my son, Bring back the giant’s head; And the crown with which my brows have done, Shall glitter on thine instead.”
“My father, I seek no crowns, But unspoken praise from thee; For thy people’s good, and thy renown, I will die to set them free.”
The king sat down and waited there, And rose not, night nor day; Till a sound of shouting filled the air, And cries of a sore dismay.
Then like a king he sat once more, With the crown upon his head; And up to the throne the people bore A mighty giant dead.
And up to the throne the people bore A pale and lifeless boy. The king rose up like a prophet of yore, In a lofty, deathlike joy.
He put the crown on the chilly brow: “Thou should’st have reigned with me But Death is the king of both, and now I go to obey with thee.
“Surely some good in me there lay, To beget the noble one.” The old man smiled like a winter day, And fell beside his son.