If this sword could talk, of its birth,
What stories would it tell?
Of a village forge, and anvil;
And the carbons sweating smell.
The hammer of the birth pains
The hissing of the fjord,
The honing stone of sharpness,
The first time it tasted blood.
If this sword could sing, of how it died,
Would the words be of the brave?
Of honour during battle,
And the kinsmen it had saved.
The funeral of its master,
The dead foes it took along;
The touches flaming in the night,
The Valkyries battle song.