The Kalethulu

[Swatopluk]

Fragments from the lost epic Kalethulu

In the ocean the Pacific
In the Southern Sea the endless
Lies the sunken city R'lyeh
Lies the city of the Old One

R'lyeh's roads are lightless gorges
Rays of sunshine never go there
Filled with gloom the streets and alleys
Darkness seeps from ev'ry window

Architecture cyclopean
Of geometry inhuman
Euclid would not know the angles
Could not measure lay or length there

All the lanes lead up the mountain
Meet all at the city's center
Where the dreaded door is looming
Where the master's house is standing

In the house lies Old Cthulhu
Ancient Star-Spawn dead but dreaming
Waiting for the stars returning
Thirsting for the souls of mortals

Closed the portal, deep the darkness
Age-old evil ever brooding
Like a pressure vessel boiling/ Like a putrid plague boil fest'ring
That may burst at any moment

Elder Signs they seal the portal
For/In/Through strange eons never broken
Lock him in the foe unyielding
Keep us safe while they are holding

Deep Ones guard the mausoleum
Keep the watch while he is sleeping
Though their gods are Dagon, Hydra
They still serve the Great Cthulhu

Now that fateful stars are moving
Forming fatal constellations
Dark R'lyeh comes near the surface
Stays no longer at sea's bottom

In his house Cthulhu's stirring
Soon he'll wake from death-like slumber
Even with the seals still holding
They can't stop the dreams he sends now

Water will no longer hem them
Won't prevent them from escaping
Out they go in search of cultists
Far they fly in search of victims

In the madhouse breaks out chaos
No asylum not affected
Who is weak of mind he senses
Who is psychic recognizes

They all hear Cthulhu calling
Feel his presence drawing nearer
See the ancient city rising
Think they stand before the portal

Bended minds reach for the paintbrush
Fill the canvass with vile visions
Half mad sculptors hew the marble
From the rock release forms hellish/ghoulish

Erich Zann now finds companions
Wild go strings and eldritch woodwinds
Fill the air with strange vibrations/harmonics
That no healthy brain can fathom

They see clear that/who know him coming
That/Who have waited through the ages
Long before Man came to power
Or first mammal's tepid footstep

Since the Old One went to slumber
When R'lyeh sank to the bottom
Were/Are prepared his loathsome cultists
For his future resurrection

Races rising, races falling
Never got/was his cult neglected
Be it amphib, reptile, mammal
Never lacked the Star-Spawn servants

In the swamp the cult assembles
Low-bred mongrels, scum and sailors
Stamp (Stump?) the ground beside the bayou
Round the idol carved from green stone/rock

In the ice the cult assembles
Low-bred mongrels, raw-meat eaters
Bow-legged seal-men, fur-clad shamans
And the idol carved from whale bone/tusk

Up on Leng the cult assembles
Low-bred mongrels, slant-eyed monkids1)   1) monk-like beings with allusion to monkeys
Yellow-robed the lowly servants
Yellow-masked the unnamed High-Priest

In the bush the cult assembles
Low-bred mongrels, ebonapid(s)2)      2) black and ape-like, a 'cultured' racial slur
Pygmies, giants intermingling/ed
Hewn of iron wood the idol

Far South-East the cult assembles
Low-bred mongrels, swarthy Kanaks
Bones and feathers mar their faces
Coral-cut their hideous idol

Fires mark each cult assembly
And the cries of helpless victims
Rise above the endless drumbeat
Add their voice to cultist howling

Round each place of cult assembly
Can be heard the same words chanted
Far and wide sounds "wgah'nagl"
Far and wide too sounds "fhtagn"


[Gap of unknown length]


Slowly does the portal open
Huge stone slab is moving inwards
Smoke-like darkness flowing outwards
And a foul stench overwhelming

Hell has no mephitic vapors
Nor miasmas so abhorrent
As now streams out of the entrance
Now escapes into the open

From in there a sound is coming
In the dark there is commotion
Hear the horrid footfalls nearing
Something dreadful is approaching

Star-Spawn steps out through the doorway
Human words cannot describe him
Mountain walking, mountain stumbling
Giant, foul abomination

Living proof no god's in heaven
Thing blaspheming against nature
That what is although it shouldn't
Magnum id/hoc innominandum

Unrelenting body-mangler
Prejudicial mind-destroyer
Never-ceasing soul devourer
Omnicidal murd'rous monster

[following stanzas missing;
They likely contained the rest
of the total 169 (13*13) names of
Cthulhu]

Once again submerges R'lyeh
Ocean covers tombs and temples
Hides once more the Thing's sepulchre
Back to sleep goes Old Cthulhu

Ev'rywhere the cult is cursing
Them that spoiled the master's coming
Swears an oath the deed to punish
The prevented him returning

They will follow to the Earth's end
Seek and slay the sad survivor
Maim and maul the mate who half-mad
Has returned to tell the tale here

Those who hear it must die also
No one may the cult make public
Show to mankind them in hiding
Who in secret serve the Star-Spawn

Be it soon or be it later
Be it when the sun is fading
And the oceans wildly boiling
One day will the world be ready

May the Earth all lie in ruins
With no mammal still there breathing
Still the cult will be there waiting
Knowing that Cthulhu's coming

Stars will show correct formation
Spell the doom of all creation
Usher in the devastation
And the Old One's elevation

Finally he will be ruler
Where the throne so long stood empty
Wield at last alone the scepter
Crown and orb be his forever

Come destroy us, Great Cthulhu
Wake and make an end of mankind
Suck our souls and break our bodies
You the once and future master/monster


[Another fragment]


Worse than even Great Cthulhu
Is his son Ghatanothoa
Those who do not fear the father
Will not dare to face the offspring

Hidden in his mountain fortress
That now too lies under water
Deep inside the stronghold's dungeons
Lurks the ultimate of horrors

There's no need for him to touch you
Lay his claws upon your body
He will not rip you to pieces
Grant the mercy of oblivion

He is worse than any Gorgon
Makes a basilisk seem pleasant
They may petrify forever
But will kill you in the process

If on him your gaze is falling
It will mummify your body
Soul and mind they will stay intact
Badly scarred but never dying

Soul and mind entrapped forever
Through the agony of ages
Closed-in syndrome without ending
Cause your shell will never perish

Never will decay destroy it
Free the soul from earthly bondage
And with Him a constant presence
Rescue cannot reach you ever

Never sleeps Ghanatothoa
In his halls upon high mountain
So whoever will there enter
He must face the son of Star-Spawn

Pray he always will stay in there
Does not come into the open
Does not come down from the mountain
To the steads of sentient beings

Should  a victim's body ever
Come before the eyes of mortals
Out of prudence and of mercy
Hack it instantly to pieces

Do not check the victim's eyeballs
If you do, you'll likely join it
In the orb is fixed the image
Of the petrifying horror

So much power has the monster
With his ghoulish, vile appearance
That such image is sufficient
Too to work the spell so dreadful

[to be continued]

For those interested:
Kalethulu is a contraction of Kall ef Thulu or Kalli Thulu and is derived from Islandic Kall (= Call, Calling, Vocation) and either Þulur (=Speaker, Narrator) or Þula (=song, verse). So it means either Call of the Story-Teller or The Call of Poetry (in very free translation maybe even Siren Song).
No allusion to a certain Finnish piece of literature or the fevered imagination of a Providencial pulp-writer

[Opsa]

Eek! Very impressive epic, Swato.

[pieces o nine]

I love these!  Keep them coming.

[Sibling DavidH]

Good stuff, Swato!  

A tale so spine-chilling that it will make the bogles on your possets stand on end.

Let's have some more.

[Swatopluk]

Here is a stanza in Icelandic (in fornyrðislag metre)

þađ er Cþul(h)u
þursa drottnari
Skrímsli stjörnur
Skelfing hann er manna
Dauður en dreymandi
Sinn dagur mun koma
Rikir brjálædi
En birta er ekki

That is Cthulhu
Lord of Giants (or evil powers in general)
Monster/Spawn of stars
Enemy (he is) of mankind
Dead but dreaming
His day will come
Madness rules
But there is no light

[pieces o nine]

You never cease to amaze!   

[Swatopluk]

At the center of the cosmos
Where the primal chaos triumphs
Stands a seat of polished ether
Stands a throne not made of matter

In the seat the mindless master
On the throne the king of chaos
Azathoth the Demon Sultan
Azathoth the Idiot Inca

He the chief of all creation
He they doyen of destruction
Has  no brain a thought to process
Has no senses he could feel with

Chaos knows no rule or logic
It defies all laws and custom
From it come all things existing
In it dies what it/is created

But not Azathoth the ageless
Not the One who was and will be
He was there ere clocks were ticking
He'll be there when all has perished

How does rule a being senseless?
How does reign one lacking reason?
Who will carry out the orders
Of the king who can't them utter?

Through the One called Crawling Chaos
Vicious vile Nyarlathotep
He's the messenger and envoy
Speaking for the master speechless

He is cunning, even charming
Closest of the Old to humans
Taking shape in ancient Egypt
Phar'oh's guise his fav'rite cover


[Another fragment]



Pray, oh pray to Shub-Niggurath
Fertile mother of a thousand
Iä! black goat from the woodland
Iä! black ram from the forest

In a world of murd'rous monsters
In a cosmos hating humans
She's the One not wholly hostile
She alone provides protection


[Another fragment]



That is Glaaki, lurking liar
In this lake his lair is hidden
That his body made when coming
Down to Earth from distant places.

[Swatopluk]

Lured by the mendacious monster
Drawn by dreams of life and wisdom
Foolish mortals will approach him
Will believe his lies and promise

Those who travel past the goatwood
Those who near the lake in error
They all fall to his spell victim
Cannot turn their step(s) to flee him

Some who search for Shub-Niggurath
But then miss the gloomy goatwood
Come to where Great Glaaki's hiding
Get entrapped, become his victim

On his back the great wolf's footprint      (=iron)
Sticking out are spikes of iron
Hollow tipped like stinging nettle
Like harpoons of angry hornets

Through them he injects his poison
Greenish slime of gruesome power
Turns his victims into zombies
That must serve the guileful Glaaki

Break the spike before injection
After it has pierced your body
You will die but find salvation
You'll be spared eternal serfdom

They indeed become immortal
Those who fall for Glaaki's promise
But it is as undead servant
Mind and body taken over

And with sixty summers passing
Sixty winters in his service
Green Decay will ache/plague the servants
Green Rot threaten their survival

Those by Green Decay afflicted
Must avoid all light exposure
Undead flesh will fall apart then
If a single sunray hits it

They must hide in utter darkness
May not come out during daytime
Serve their master under starlight
Or they risk annihilation.

Only when the master sleepeth
Can the servant's mind move freely
Is aware of doom and thralldom
Can lament his fate and status

When the master lies in slumber
Will the servants scratch/carve the tablets
Write down Glaaki's revelations
Tell the tale in many volumes


[Another fragment]



At a time by few remembered
In an age by most forgotten
Held an ancient race dominion
This our Earth was ruled by others

Long before Cthulhu's Star-Spawn
Or the Old himself arrived here
Undisputed through the ages
Elder Things controlled this planet

They were master of all nature
Could rise life from lifeless matter
Rose a race of migthy servants
That would work, obey their bidding

Giant protoplasmic bubbles
Without shape but with great power
Not endowed with mind or reason
But with strength out of proportion

These are called by us the shoggoths
Feared like few things in creation
Like immense amoebas sliding
To all living things a horror

What became of ancient masters
That created them as workers?
How could tool that built the cities
Conquer them that gave the orders?

(to be continued)

[Swatopluk]

When from up came Great Cthulhu
When Mi-Go came down from Yuggoth
War broke out between the races
Strife and slaughter, wild and vicious

Elder Things sent out the shoggoths
Sent their servants as their proxies
They should fight the Great Cthulhu
The should crush the crustaceans

But the fought a losing battle
Lost their cities on the surface
Were confined to ocean's bottom
Were holed up in cold Antarctic

This was not their only problem
There were other consequences
They had sent to war their servants
Sent the shoggoths into battle

Slaves that had till then been mindless
And had stayed below the surface
Were now fighting out of water
And began to grow self-conscious

Elder Things made now concessions
Ceded land to Great Cthulhu
Gave access to ore to Mi-Go
Signed the peace to end the slaughter

Then they fought their former servants
Once again subdued the shoggoths
Those that had not joined Cthulhu
Or had fled to hidden places

But no spell can last forever
And the slaves again grew restless
After ages of suppression
Shoggoths rose up in rebellion

Now all cities were abandoned
In the sea and the Antarctic
Elder Things sought final refuge
In the bowels of the planet

Deep below the Madness Mountains
Deep below the Southern Ice-shield
Where no human ever ventured
Elder Things may still be living

Are they still there in the darkness
Building cities in the caverns?
Have they reenslaved the shoggots
There to serve them as their minions?

Or has protoplasmic monster
Put an end to former master?
Who will go to find the answer
And return alive to tell us?

(to be continued)

[Swatopluk]

In the graveyards ghouls are meeting
In the graves the ghouls are feasting
Gouge themselves on human corpses
Eating what's no longer living

Yes their habits are disgusting
Table manners not their strong point
They won't serve the rotten carcass
On fine dinnerware of silver/china

Fork and knife they cannot handle
Cutlery they will use never
They have claws to cut the portions
Have strong hands the food to handle

[two stanzas unconnected to the rest]

Habt verschrieben euch dem Bösen
Wollt ihn aus den Banden lösen
Die so lange ihn gehalten
Schützten uns vor den Gewalten

Schwere Strafe sollt ihr spüren
Arme Seelen zu entführen
Sie dem Unhold hinzuschlachten
Ist gewesen euer Trachten

[standard text resumes here]

Don't believe they eat small children
That they rob from tearful parents
They abduct but don't devour
Toddlers take but not for dinner

Any child they have abducted
They will feed with special corpse meat
Teach them all their ghoulish habits
Make them members of their species

Many ghouls you may encounter
Meet where meat of man is eaten/dead man's meat is eaten
They began as human children
Nurture made them what they are now

Small kids stolen from the cradle
Torn away from tearful parents
Strengthen now the growing ghouldom
Not as slaves but as true siblings

Though they will not harm the wee ones
Hurt those they intend to join them
Don't approach them unless called for
Don't go near them uninvited

They will deal with the intruder
Show no mercy to the meddler
Better torn by dogs to pieces
Than do what the ghoul displeases

Gruesome, sticky is the ending
Of him who the ghoul offendeth
The disturber of their dinner
Will not see another morning

But with proper introduction
One will find these fiends quite friendly
One can forge with them a friendship
Stronger than with most of mortals

You can join them as an adult
Although few will take the offer
Most prefer for their nutition
Other things than rotten corpses

Of these few one is quite famous
While he walked among the living
He was known as Richard Pickmann
Great among perverted painters

Though his talent was/got acknowledged
As a well/most accomplished artist
In revulsion turned the critics
What he put upon the canvas

Scenes of horror unimagined
Worse than any common nightmare
Nothing what the sane could stomach
Or allow in exhibitions

Of a fever(ed) mind the figments
Bubbling from a brain all sickened
That's what critics claim is fountain
Source and spring of Pickmann's paintings

They know nothing of his methods
Could not grasp a truth so gory
That from life is drawn the loathsome
That he witnessed what his work shows

His detractors he derided
Taunted those with taste, 'distinction'
Drew from them perverted pleasure
Felt rewarded by their furor

What he loathed were his admirers
Hate he had for those who loved him
Could not stand their praise insipid
Pseudodecadents he called them

For he knew at least the critics
Sensed the real behind the rotten
Fear it fueled their condemnation
Horror nourished their nausea

[Swatopluk]

And now for something completely different:
A fake fairy-tale based on even more fake medieval events and heroic songs.

Owl-Terry and the Red Bull
(no allusion to that dreadful drink intended)

There lived in a village by a river a young lad by the name of Terry. He was not very bright and many considered him to be candidate for the position of village idiot once the sitting one would die. But he was always frienddly ans smiling and never had an unkind word for anyone. He was also a friend to all wild animals, especially birds. His favorite was a large gray owl living in a tree at the edge of the forest. Thus people began to call him Owl-Terry. Thsi friendship grew so close that one calm autumn evening the owl suddenly opened his beak and whispered into Terry's ear. "you are different from the other boys. You don't plunder our nests, you don't ever throw rocks at us and if any bird is hurt you take care and nurse it back to health. For all the good you have done to us we will take you into our confidence and ahre with you some vital secrets. Very soon the old village idiot will die. The people will cry that the king has died and that they need a new one. They will say that that you alone have the wisdom to fill his shoes and they will mock-crown you with straw, an apple and a leek. You will pretend to take them at their word. Now listen carefully what you must do. Remove the lintel of your hut's door and extend the doorframe up to the roof. Tie your father's plough to the roof beam above the door with the shaft pointing downward. When people ask you what you are doing there, explain to them that it is to teach them respect. 'He who enters my palace not bowing his head will run against the shaft and the ploughshare will go through his neck.' They will praise your ingenuity and firm hand and will leave it at that. Otherwise act as always, although maybe a bit more aloof. Three days afer the hay harvest there will be a great commotion in the village and everyone will run down to the river. Do not join them but come here quickly and bring me into your hut without anybody noticing."
Another boy might have been surprised and frightened that an owl spoke to him but Owl-Terry had always believed that anomals could understand and talk like humans do but did not usually see the need since so much can be said without words. He went home and truly by the end of the week the old village idiot had died and our boy became Fool-Terry I.
As he had been he heightened the door and tied the plough above it. Great was the praise to his face and great the laughter behind his back. The autumn proceeded and hay was made. All barns got filled up to the roof. Only Terry who had no horse or cow did not store any. He even emptied his mattrass and threw the straw away when a bird flew by and told him so. Three days after the harvest he woke up early in the morning and heard a great commotion outside. People shouted "To the river, to the river!" but Terry remembered what the owl had said to him. He sneaked out the back door and ran to the edge of the forest. The old owl awaited him. "Here, take my bag of mice and let's go before He sees you." Terry did not ask who He was but hid his friend under a piece of cloth, took the bag of mice and went back to his hut unseen.
"Do not leave the hut and don't make any noise until I tell you! HIs eye is keen, His ears are sharp and He can smell the smallest peice of hay or straw from afar.". But the hut was clean and Terry took seat in a dark corner without a word or question.
Meanwhile the villagers had assembled at the river bank to see the great miracle. A huge red bull with golden horns and iron hooves swam up the river towards them. His eyes were fire. his breath steam and his hooves threw sparks when they hit a stone. He was almost twice as high as a man at the shoulders. The ground shook under his step. "I am hungry!", he bellowed, "Bring me hay!". They ran to bring him some but the more he ate the more he demanded. And when the first barn was emptied he gored the owner and trampled him into the dust.
"I am thirsty!", he belloeed, "Bring me water!". But the more water they brought to him from the well the more he demanded. And when the well ran dry he gored the first whose bucket was empty and trampled him into the dust. The he went to the river, pissed into it and muddied the water with his hooves, so nobody could drink from it without getting sick.
During the night some tried to flee but the bull's eye was keen, his ears sharp and not a single one got even a hundred paces away before He gored them and trampled them into the dust.
On the second day he emptied two barns, on the third three, and for each that he emptied he gored the owner and trampled him into the dust. No one dared to attack the bull and some ended under his hooves for merely letting their eyes rest on a scythe or pitchfork.
When the fourth day broke the owl spoke to Terry. "Now it is your turn. Climb into the chimney as far as you can get. I'll go before you and spy around. Btw, I hope there is nothing in this hut your heart is too closely attached to.". "No, there isn't.", said Terry and began to climb. As an orphan he was naturally slim and if the owl had not stopped him, he would have gone up all they way and onto the roof. "Keep your head down!", the owl said, "You are to be heard, not seen.". "In here you sound so different, much deeper and hollow like a ghost.". "I hope so, for we will need that. Listen, when I say 'Now!', shout as loud as you can these words: 'Skinka, stinka, springa'!". "Skinka, stinka, springa?". "Yes, it means 'jump, you stinking piece of ham' in the old tongue. Now let me look. Yes, the bull is in the village square and looking for someone to gore and trample into the dust. We will give him what he wants. NOW!".
The bull bellowed. "Bring me hay! Bring me water! I need to piss! I need to gore and trample!"
Sudddenly he heard a deep and hollow voice. "Skiiinkaaa! Stiiinkaaa! Spriiingaaa!"
"Whoooo dareth?", bellowed the bull, "How do you call me?"
"Skiiinkaaa!"
"What do you call me?"
"Stiiinkaaa!"
"And you dare to command me what to do?"
"Spriiingaaa!"
"I will jump very well. I'll gore you. I'll trample you into the dust! Then I'll gore you again!"
"Skinka, stinka, springa!"
"I hear you, I know where you are. You hide in that hut with the high door."
"Skinka, stinka, springa!"
"Wait, this instant you will be on my horns and beneath my hooves!"
The bull's eye was fire from hell, his breath steam from a vent, his hooves threw sparks as he ran, blinded by fury, to Terry's hut. The door splintered without slowing him down the least. His head crashed into the heavy shaft of the plough pushing it forward like a a large lever. On the other side of the pivot the ploghshare swung down with the same force the bull pushed the shaft with and went deep into his neck. In pain the bull's hwad went up and his bellow blew the walls down but it drove the ploughsahre even deeper in. In agony he tore the hut to pieces so that only the chimney remained standing. the at last he fell down dead and the light vanished from his eye. It took some time before Terry dared to climb out of the chimney and even longer before the surviving villagers found the courage to come out of their houses. "What has happened that the mighty bull lies down dead, he that no one could touch, he that gored and trampled into the dust with impunity? Who slew him and how?". "He slew himself. He was not humble and would not bow his head entering the hut, so the ploughshare pierced his neck. He fell before the fool, the foul fell to the feeble. And, not to forget, he left us with a lot of meat."
"Fool you may be but fair is your speech. We owe you our lives. How can we repay you?". "that one is easy. Whenever you butcher, share some with the fool. A piece of the hindleg seems proper to me.". "So be it, for you and those that come after. the fool shall not go hungry when there is meat around!"
And the villagers kept their word. they aslo helped him to rebuild his hut and insisted that the plough would again be hung above the door. Owl-Terry reached a ripe old age and personally handed his status over to another young not-so-bright-but-friendly-to-every-living-creature lad. And to this very day the custom is kept that the elected fool would get a piece from the hindleg of every butchered bull, pig, or sheep. And parents tell their kids the story of Owl-Terry and the Red Bull as I have now told it to you. Now, let's all call out loudly: Skinka! Stinka! Springa!

[Roland Deschain]

I'm slowly working my way through the Cthulhu epics, but they are worthy of Lovecraft himself (and the Old Ones, of course ).

[Swatopluk]

Here's the prologue for the Óltheresmál/Hristarismál

Should of course be in Old Norse or Old English but I am not well-versed enough in either

Moved to post below
Heerfahrt besing ich    des herrischen Jarls
Uxavaði des Edlen    des Jógvans Sohn
Heldische Werke    herrlicher Recken
Doch Neidingstat auch    werd nicht ich verhehlen

Im Holmgang maßen    der Männer sich zweie
Sie traten zum Tanz an    den Tyr zu ehren
Einer ein Sachse    der andre von Franken
Schützer der Scholle    und Schild-Than des Wikings

Graubart stand grimmig    den Ger da schwang er
Erwartet den Ansturm    des Ungestümen
Nicht krümmt das Alter   des Kampfbaums Rücken
Nicht Stütze des Schwachen    ist Schwarzkittels Zähmer

Helm von Spangen    und schuppichter Panzer
Hüllen den Jungen    herrlich zu schauen
Tapfer der treue   Träger der Waffen
Schild stets des Schenkers    schimmernder Ringe

Wie diese beiden    Waffen hier kreuzten
Skinka von Franken    von Sachsen Ólthere
Will ich in Versen    würdig des Fürsten
Künden den Kühnen    in Königs Halle

Of the campaign I will sing of the lordly Jarl
Uxavaði the noble son of Jógvar
Heroic deeds of splendid warriors
But villanous deeds I will not conceal either

In single combat two men competed
They took to the dance to honour Tyr
One a Saxon the other from Francia
The furrow's protector and the Viking's sword thane

Graybeard stood fierce, the spear he shook
Awaiting the onslaught of the boisterous
Not did (his) old age bend the battle-tree's (=warrior) back
No weakling's support is blackmantle's (=wild boar) tamer (=the spear)

A spangenhelm and scale armor
Cover(ed) the young one, a marvel to behold
Brave the faithful carrier of arms
Always the shield of the donor of shimmering rings

How these two crossed weapons
Skinka of Francia, of Saxony Ólthere
I will in verses worthy of the prince
Tell to the bold in the king's hall

[Swatopluk]

Another fragment from the first part.
A singer in the Jarl's hall addresses the assembled men at the feast

Moved to post below
Wir sind Schmarotzer    beim Schenker der Ringe
Mindern das Gut    des mildesten Herren
Wann habt zuletzt    ihr Waffen geführet
Im blutigen Strauße    beschirmt den Fürsten?

Ihr habt gefüttert   den Fresser des Eisens
Nicht wie es sein soll   Siegvaters Möwen
Weich sind die Hände   die hart sein sollten
Heben die Hörner   der Helmwolf muß fasten

Praßt ihr noch lange   in prächtiger Halle
Schickt der Feind Weiber   den Weichling zu ducken
Was braucht es Männer   die Memmen zu würgen
Die sich gemästet    die Muskeln verloren?

Reizet den Herrn doch    zur Heerfahrt zu rüsten
Sonnab zu segeln    zum Sachsenlande
Anglias Ufer    wo oft von den Vätern
Blut ward vergossen   und Beute gewonnen

Stoßet vom Strande   den Steven des Langschiffs
Es pflüge Njords Acker   das Pferd der Wogen
Trage die Recken    dem Ruhm entgegen
Eilig durch Ägirs    unstetes Lehen

We are parasites at (the court of) the ring-giver
Diminish the goods of the most generous lord
When have you last wielded weapons
In the bloody strife shielded the prince?

You have fed the eater of iron (=rust)
Not as it should be the gulls of the father of victory (=Odin's birds = ravens)
Soft are the hands that should be hard
(They) lift but the (drinking) horns, the helmet wolf (=axe) has to go hungry

Splurge you much longer in the splendid hall
The foe will send females to duck/cow the weakling
Who would need men to kill the cowards
That have fattened themselves but lost their muscles?

Incite the Lord to go on campaign
To sail sun-down (=westward) to the land of the Saxon
Anglia's coast where often by our fathers
Blood was shed and booty won

Push off the beach the stem of the longship
Let Njord's fields be plowed by the wave horse
To carry the warriors towards glory
Swiftly through Aegir's unsteady realm

[Swatopluk]

I made some extra verses that fit in-between the already posted.
So I better put the full prologue and first scene here again and erase it in the above posts
I'll put the epilogue behind that

Prologue

Heerfahrt besing ich    des herrischen Jarls
Uxavaði des Edlen    des Jógvans Sohn
Heldische Werke    herrlicher Recken
Doch Neidingstat auch    werd nicht ich verhehlen

Im Holmgang maßen    der Männer sich zweie
Sie traten zum Tanz an    den Tyr zu ehren
Einer ein Sachse    der andre von Franken
Schützer der Scholle    und Schwert-Than des Wikings

Graubart stand grimmig    den Ger da schwang er
Erwartet den Ansturm    des Ungestümen
Nicht krümmt das Alter   des Kampfbaums Rücken
Nicht Stütze des Schwachen    ist Schwarzkittels Zähmer

Helm von Spangen    und schuppichter Panzer
Hüllen den Jungen    herrlich zu schauen
Tapfer der treue   Träger der Waffen
Schild stets des Schenkers    schimmernder Ringe

Wie diese beiden    Waffen hier kreuzten
Skinka von Franken    von Sachsen Ólthere
Will ich in Versen    würdig des Fürsten
Künden den Kühnen    in Königs Halle

First scene

Fest ward gefeiert    beim Feinde des Goldes
Es saß auf der Metbank    die Menge der Krieger
Die Hörner zu heben   dem Herren zum Preise
Das Mahl zu morden   dem mildesten Fürsten

Der Herr der Halle    vom Hochsitz ruft er
Den Wirker der Worte    wünscht er zu hören
Heißt ihn zu spenden    von Suttungs Met
Und so wie geheißen   der hebt an zum Liede

Wir sind Schmarotzer    beim Schenker der Ringe
Mindern das Gut    des mildesten Herren
Wann habt zuletzt    ihr Waffen geführet
Im blutigen Strauße    beschirmt den Fürsten?

Ihr habt gefüttert   den Fresser des Eisens
Nicht wie es sein soll   Siegvaters Möwen
Weich sind die Hände   die hart sein sollten
Heben die Hörner   der Helmwolf muß fasten

Praßt ihr noch lange   in prächtiger Halle
Schickt der Feind Weiber   den Weichling zu ducken
Was braucht es Männer   die Memmen zu würgen
Die sich gemästet    die Muskeln verloren?

Reizet den Herrn doch    zur Heerfahrt zu rüsten
Sonnab zu segeln    zum Sachsenlande
Anglias Ufer    wo oft von den Vätern
Blut ward vergossen   und Beute gewonnen

Stoßet vom Strande   den Steven des Langschiffs
Es pflüge Njords Acker   das Pferd der Wogen
Trage die Recken    dem Ruhm entgegen
Eilig durch Ägirs    unstetes Lehen

Auf sprang der Edle    Uxavaðis Haupt
Der glänzende Jarl    Jógvans Sohn
Herab vom Hochsitz    der Halle Zierde
Und ruft in die Runde    der reisigen/rüstigen Mannen

Es stachelt zum Streite    die Stolzen am Tische
Der Künder der Kühnheit    des Kampfmuts Besinger
Doch wahr sind die Worte    und weise gesprochen
Zu rütteln die Recken    aus ruhmlosem Nichtstun

Nicht ziemt es zu zehren    zu lang von den Gütern
Die Väter erkämpften    mit kräftigem Arme
Eh Fettsucht und Faulheit    uns fesseln zur Unzeit
Ist's besser die Brünnen    mit Blut frisch zu netzen

Schleifet die Schwerter    die Schilde neu buckelt
Laßt blitzen die Beile    die Brecher der Fischhaut
Stoßt aus den Ställen    die sturmfesten Renner
Auf Bolsis Bank    bringt die Schäumer

Westwärts soll wiehern   der Wogentrotzer
Und südwärts halb segeln    zum Sachsenlande
Die Küste ist kahl schon    kaum was zu holen
Laßt stürmen die Stätten    die stromaufwärts liegen

Epilogue

Ein Schiff alleine    nach Osten nun/nur steuert
Die Hälfte der Helden    zur Halle kehrt wieder
Ruhm sie und Reichtum    dem Raubzug verdanken
Fehlt auf der Metbank    auch mancher Genosse

Der lebt im Liede    den Lehm nun zudeckt
Fiel er im Felde    vom Feinde getroffen
Empfing er also    ehrbare Wunde
Die Walküre weist ihn    zu Walhallas Tür

Steht auch dem Starken    nicht Skinka mehr bei nun
Der Franke gefallen    am Flusse im Zweikampf
Noch traf ihn der Tod nicht     wo Tyr bringt man Opfer
Fürchtet den Feind nicht    der Fäller Óltheres

Oft noch zog aus    Uxavaðis Jarl
Jógvans Sohn    Schenker der Ringe
Es singen im Saale    die Sänger der Edlen
Vom Wütrich der Walstatt    vom watenden Stier

Rough translation (and some minimum explanations)
Prologue

Of the campaign I will sing of the lordly Jarl
Of Uxavað the noble son of Jógvan
Heroic deeds of splendid warriors
But villanous deeds I will not conceal either

In single combat two men competed
They took to the dance to honour Tyr (the war god)
One a Saxon the other from Francia
The furrow's protector and the Viking's sword thane

Graybeard stood fierce, the spear he shook
Awaiting the onslaught of the boisterous
Not did (his) old age bend the battle-tree's (=warrior) back
No weakling's support is blackmantle's (=wild boar) tamer (=the spear)

A spangenhelm and scale armor
Cover(ed) the young one, a marvel to behold
Brave the faithful carrier of arms
Always the shield of the donor of shimmering rings

How these two crossed weapons
Skinka of Francia, of Saxony Ólthere
I will in verses worthy of the prince
Tell to the bold in the king's hall

First scene

Feast there was at the gold-foe (=generous master) ('s house)
There sat on the mead-bench the lot of the warriors
To lift the (drinking) horns to praise the master
To murder the meal of the most generous prince

The hall's master from the high seat he calls
He wants to hear the wordsmith
Asks him to share the mead of Suttung (=poetry)
And as requested he begins his song

We are parasites at (the court of) the ring-giver
Diminish the goods of the most generous lord
When have you last wielded weapons
In the bloody strife shielded the prince?

You have fed the eater of iron (=rust)
Not as it should be the gulls of the father of victory (=Odin's birds = ravens)
Soft are the hands that should be hard
(They) lift but the (drinking) horns, the helmet wolf (=axe) has to go hungry

Splurge you much longer in the splendid hall
The foe will send females to duck/cow the weakling
Who would need men to kill the cowards
That have fattened themselves but lost their muscles?

Incite the Lord to go on campaign
To sail sun-down (=westward) to the land of the Saxon
Anglia's coast where often by our fathers
Blood was shed and booty won

Push off the beach the stem of the longship
Let Njord's fields (=the sea) be plowed by the wave horse (=ship)
To carry the warriors towards glory
Swiftly through Aegir's unsteady realm (=the sea)

Up jumps the noble, head of Uxavað
The splendid jarl the son of Jógvan
Down from the high seat, the hall's adornement
And loudly calls into the assembly of warlike men

He incites to strife the pride ones at the table
The teller of daring, the singer of bravery
But true are the words and wisely spoken
To shake the warriors from inglorious idleness

It misbecomes to feed too long from the goods
That fathers eked out with strong arm
Ere obesity and laziness untimely chain us
It's better to wet the mailcoats afresh with blood

Sharpen the swords and put new bosses on the shields
Let sparkle the battle axes the breakers of fish skin (scale armor)
Push from the stables the storm-safe runners (=ships from the ship-houses)
To Bolsi's bench (=the sea) lead the foamers

Westwards shall whinny the wave-braver
And sail half southwards to Saxon land
The coast is bare already, not much to get there
Let's storm the steads that lie upstream

Epilogue

A single ship now/only stears eastward
Half the heroes to the hall return
Glory and Riches the owe to the raid
Even while many comrades are missing on the mead bench

He lives in song whom loam now covers
If he fell on the battlefield struck by the foe
If he received a honourable wound
The Valkyrie sends him to the doors of Valhalla

Although Skinka stands no longer at the strong one's side
The Frank who fell by the river in single combat
Not met his death where sacrifices to Tyr are made (=battlefield)
Not fears the foe the feller of Ólthere

Often yet went out (to war) the jarl of Uxavað
Jógvan's son giver of rings
In the hall the singers of the nobles sing
Of the rager on the battlefield, the wading bull (Uxavað = river crossing of bulls)