Havamal: Words of the High one
9781613107751
418 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
Young and alone on a long road, Once I lost my way: Rich I felt when I found another; Man rejoices in man, A kind word need not cost much, The price of praise can be cheap: With half a loaf and an empty cup I found myself a friend, Two wooden stakes stood on the plain, On them I hung my clothes: Draped in linen, they looked well born, But, naked, I was a nobody Too early to many homes I came, Too late, it seemed, to some: The ale was finished or else un-brewed, The unpopular cannot please, Some would invite me to visit their homes, But none thought I needed a meal, As though I had eaten a whole joint, Just before with a friend who had two The man who stands at a strange threshold, Should be cautious before he cross it, Glance this way and that: Who knows beforehand what foes may sit Awaiting him in the hall? Greetings to the host, The guest has arrived, In which seat shall he sit? Rash is he who at unknown doors Relies on his good luck, Fire is needed by the newcomer Whose knees are frozen numb; Meat and clean linen a man needs Who has fared across the fells, Water, too, that he may wash before eating, Handcloth’s and a hearty welcome, Courteous words, then courteous silence That he may tell his tale, Who travels widely needs his wits about him, The stupid should stay at home: The ignorant man is often laughed at When he sits at meat with the sage, Of his knowledge a man should never boast, Rather be sparing of speech When to his house a wiser comes: Seldom do those who are silent Make mistakes; mother wit Is ever a faithful friend, A guest should be courteous When he comes to the table And sit in wary silence, His ears attentive, his eyes alert: So he protects himself, Fortunate is he who is favoured in his lifetime With praise and words of wisdom: Evil counsel is often given By those of evil heart, Blessed is he who in his own lifetime Is awarded praise and wit, For ill counsel is often given By mortal men to each other, Better gear than good sense A traveller cannot carry, Better than riches for a wretched man, Far from his own home, Better gear than good sense A traveller cannot carry, A more tedious burden than too much drink A traveller cannot carry, Less good than belief would have it Is mead for the sons of men: A man knows less the more he drinks, Becomes a befuddled fool, I-forget is the name men give the heron Who hovers over the fast: Fettered I was in his feathers that night, When a guest in Gunnlod’s court Drunk I got, dead drunk, When Fjalar the wise was with me: Best is the banquet one looks back on after, And remembers all that happened, Silence becomes the Son of a prince, To be silent but brave in battle: It befits a man to be merry and glad Until the day of his death, The coward believes he will live forever If he holds back in the battle, But in old age he shall have no peace Though spears have spared his limbs When he meets friends, the fool gapes, Is shy and sheepish at first, Then he sips his mead and immediately All know what an oaf he is, He who has seen and suffered much, And knows the ways of the world, Who has travelled’, can tell what spirit Governs the men he meets, Drink your mead, but in moderation, Talk sense or be silent: No man is called discourteous who goes To bed at an early hour. A gluttonous man who guzzles away Brings sorrow on himself: At the table of the wise he is taunted often, Mocked for his bloated belly, The herd knows its homing time, And leaves the grazing ground: But the glutton never knows how much His belly is able to hold, An ill tempered, unhappy man Ridicules all he hears, Makes fun of others, refusing always To see the faults in himself Foolish is he who frets at night, And lies awake to worry’ A weary man when morning comes, He finds all as bad as before, The fool thinks that those who laugh At him are all his friends, Unaware when he sits with wiser men How ill they speak of him.
