I.

Yes — 'tis decreed my Sword no more
Shall smoke and blush with hostile Gore;
To my great Father's Feasts I go,
Where luscious Wines for ever flow,
Which from the hollow Sculls we drain,
Of Kings in furious Combat slain.

II.

Death, to the Brave a blest Resort,
Brings us to awful Odin 's Court;
Where with old Warriors mix'd we dwell,
Recount our Wounds, our Triumphs tell;
Me, will they own as bold a Guest,
As e'er in Battle bar'd my Breast.