I am a strange thing, forged in strife,
dear to my lord, finely adorned.
My mail is mottled and bright wire twines
the death-gem which my ruler gave me,
who, in his wanderings, wields me himself
at times in strife. Then I wear treasure
through the bright day, handwork of smiths,
gold among courts. Often I kill
living men with battle-weapons. King adorns me
with treasure and silver, and honours me in hall,
showers praise, shouts my virtues
to the throng where they drink mead;
holds me in check, at times lets me again
go free, travel-weary,
strong in battle. Often in his mend's hands
I hurt others harshly; I am widely hated,
damned by weapons. I need not hope
that a son will avenge me on my slayer's life
should some enemy attack me in battle;
the stock from which I'm sprung
is swelled by no child of mine,
unless, lordless, I might leave
the guardian who gave me rings.
If I obey my lord, wage war
as I did before for my prince's pleasure,
my lot is cast that I must lack
the blessing of children. With bride I may not
please my flesh, for he who first
laid bonds on me still bans
me that merry game; therefore I must as a
bachelor enjoy the treasures of heroes.
Often, a fool in filigree, I anger a woman,
thwart her desire; she rails at me,
claps her hands, scolds me in words,
screeches evil. I care not for that contest.