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(illustration by Carl Larsson and Gunnar Forssell)

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Fenja:

This heavy stone – oh, heavy stone!

In Denmark, at our toil we moan!

Sustren sweat –

Bright skin’s so wet –

Turning this mill what creaks and groans!

 

Shoving this rock no man might budge –

Around, around, for aye we drudge.

The storms, they scream;

The men, they dream;

A circle’s our atrocious trudge.

 

Menja:

From wishstone spills this wealth and gold,

From magic mill on haunted wold

For Frodi king;

And e’er we sing

That all his men might sleep enfold,

 

And peace might reign – the swords rest sheathed;

Our syllables bring souls reprieve

From blood and spear,

From wounds and fear:

A little age when none shall grieve.

 

Fenja:

On moor a ring in safety’s left;

No murder households know, nor theft;

And all do sleep

In perfect ease,

To suff’ring ours completely deaf.

 

Thurses are we, giant-maids,

In battle seized – by lord betrayed!

For him we slew

A threat’ning crew,

Leaving all dashed the foe-man’s brains –

 

Menja:

A prince downcasting, breaking shields,

Berserkers chasing from the fields;

And Fjolner we 

Did raise to be

The chieftain of those vasty wealds.

 

But to grindstone now we’re bound –

To crushing rocks from which we’ve ground,

Through vicious heat 

And winter’s sleet,

Such treasure-piles to kingdoms drown.

 

Fenja:

Oh slumb’ring Frodi, hear this plea:

To cease our grinding give us leave

For but as long

As sung’s a song,

Or as the cuckoo silence keeps.

 

Our suit is just – arise, awake!

For sinews tremble, muscles ache;

And mill as well,

If sounds might tell,

Doth seem to strain and slowly break.

 

Menja:

All wrapped is king in dreamish sheets;

Inside soft beard his soft lips wheeze.

The riches tumble

In a jumble;

But there’s none their shine might please.

 

Now like millstone turn the heavens,

Like some hot and fevered sweven;

And rain-torrents

Pouring, pouring,

Lash like blows of cloud-trolls’ weapons.

 

Fenja:

No more these rings, these gems, these coins –

No more what sleeping lord enjoins!

And lullaby

That we sigh 

Hushes now – no more such noise.

 

Let the swordsman start from rest;

Let the knight by slumber blessed

Rouse and list,

Vague dreams amidst,

To eerie quiet that he sensed.

 

Menja:

Screech, oh millstone! Now we sisters

Grind to give our palms such blisters!

Make not gold hoard –

Rather, foe-horde:

Baleful warband, horrid figures!

 

Who leads that host? The frightful Mysing,

Crowned with coral, awful sea-king;

And come rowing

Through pink gloaming

Ship-heaps of his roving vikings!

 

Both:

Frodi, fire! All peace hath ended;

’Gainst thy throat are swords intended!

And around us

As wind’s howling

Mill comes crashing; gods offended

 

Rend that wishstone – now we giants

Freed from chains, in men’s blood-geysers

Soon shall warm us…

Pouring, pouring,

Hot blood flows now to delight us!

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