...Where His Ravens Fly...

	geri and freki does heerfather feed,
	the far-famed fighter of old.
	but on wine alone does the one-eyed god,
	wuotan, forever live.

	o'er midgard hugin and munin both
	each day set forth to flay.
	for hugin i fear lest he come not home,
	but for munin my care is more.

	there valgrind stands, the sacred gate,
	and behind're the holy doors.
	old is the gate, but few there are
	who can tell how it's tightly locked.

	five hundred doors and forty there are,
	i ween, in walhall's walls.
	eight hundred fighters through one door fare
	when to war with the wolf they go.

	five hundred rooms and forty there are
	i ween, in bilskirnir built.
	of all the homes who'se roofs i beheld,
	my son's the greatest meseemed.

	there is folkvang, where freyja decrees
	who shall have seats in the hall.
	the half of the dead each day does she choose,
	the other half does othin have.

	there is gladsheim, and golden-bright
	there stands walhall stretching wide,
	there does othin each day choose
	all those who fell in fight.

	now am i othin, ygg was i once,
	ere that did they call me thund.
	wodan and oden, and all, methinks,
	are the names for none but me.

	hail to thee, for hailed thou art
	by the voice of veratyr.
	where valgrind stands, the sacred gate
	ye will find nine golden doors.

	hail to thee, for hailed thou art
	by the voice of veratyr.
	old is the gate, but few there are
	who can tell how it's tightly locked.