A lonely wanderer, wounded with iron,
I am smitten with war blades, sated with strife,
Worn with the sword edge; I have seen many battles,
Much hazardous fighting, oft without hope
Of comfort or help in the carnage of war
Ere I perish and fall in the fighting of men.
The leavings of hammers, the handwork of smiths,
Batter and mite me, hard-edged and sharp;
The brunt of battle I am doomed to endure.
In all the folk-stead no leech* could I find
With wort or simple* to heal my wounds;
Mut day and night with deadly blows
The marks of the war blades double and deepen.

*-These are methods of healing