ome hither, traveler, come and stay,
Becalm your chills beside the fire,
For light has all been spent this day,
And there is much your needs require.

So come within and take a chair,
Your toils for the day are ended.
My hospitality’s quite fair,
Though all your cares will be attended.

I do not ask a price in gold,
I do not need such common stuff,
For friendship warm, not metal cold,
Inside my walls is fee enough.

Indeed, you see the toll of age
Upon this withered body here.
Advancing years demand harsh wage
And wisdom asks a price more dear.

But worry not, and think instead
That our repast will soon ensue.
My tired bones you need not dread,
I cannot pose a threat to you,

So, thus, I ask you, doff your sword
And likewise helm and weighty shield,
There’s nothing here that’s untoward,
My inn is not some battlefield.

I thank you lad. Now, please, commence
To eat and drink heroic fill.
The table ‘twixt us now presents
Both bread and mead, though later still

The fruits and cheese and hearty meat
Will render appetite quite tame.
But now, as you begin to eat,
Allow me warrior, what’s thy name?

Ah, Sigmund¹! Now there’s no complaint
Against the forebear chosen thus.
The years that pass can never taint
Renown for one so valourous.

The fearsome Sigmund, strong and brave,
With Gram², his fame and honor won.
Upon death’s threshold, Sigmund gave
That sword to his yet unborn son.

But now I see no pressing need
Inherent in recounting here
The often retold tales of deeds
Known well to all with open ears.

Among the Norse alive or gone
Perhaps e’en those not yet to be
There’s few who’d cross with Sigmund’s son
And have it turn out fav’rably.

There’s none, you say? I disagree.
A greater one by far there was.
Surpassing all, this battle tree³
Made others seem mere quiv’ring straws.

Not Hogni⁴, with unquaking heart,
Nor Gunnar⁵, king who toed the harp,
Nor farmers⁶ grim who learned the art
Of battle-fiddle’s deadly sharps.

These men all pale to one who’s name
Has fallen from the common mind,
Though what he did and whence he came
Deserves no fate that’s so unkind.

His name was Signar, son of Thor⁷.
Surprised are you? You should not be.
Remember, Sigmund, all your lore,
For gods still walk ‘mongst you and me.

They act with practiced subtleness,
Whene’er they visit Midgard’s⁸ lands.
They hide within most common dress
And push no more than need demands.

So now, young Sigmund, listen well,
For often found beside a fire
Are tales that men will oft retell
For, though they age, they never tire.