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Ragnar’s Death Song

An early (and quite poor) translation of Ragnar's death song is what started the myth about Vikings drinking from the skulls of their slain enemies, and it is the only one available online. I thought I would fix that.
This is my own translation, written for a comprehensive open source index of old Norse lore I will be coming out with sometime later this year or early next. I've posted here entirely so it will show up in google search for any frustrated scholars looking for a proper translation in the meantime.
Edit: All due credit for getting me interested and started, as well as blame for the horrific mangling of certain parts of the text, goes to the original translation by Thomas Percy.
Ragnar’s Death Song
We fought with swords: When in Gothland I slew an enormous serpent: my reward was the beauteous Thora. Thence I was deemed a man: they called me Lodbrog from that slaughter. I thrust the monster through with my spear, with the steel producing splendid rewards.
We fought with swords: I was very young when towards the East, in the straits of Eirar, we gained rivers of wounds for the ravenous wolf: ample food for the yellow-footed fowl. There the hard iron sung the lofty helmets. The whole ocean was one wound. The raven waded in the blood of the slain.
We fought with swords: we lifted high our lances; when I had numbered twenty years, and every where acquired great renown. We conquered eight barons at the mouth of the Danube. We procured ample entertainment for the eagle in that slaughter. Bloody sweat fell in the ocean of wounds. A host of men there lost their lives.
We fought with swords: we enjoyed the fight, when we sent the inhabitants of Helsing to the hall of Odin. We sailed up the Vistula. Then the sword acquired spoils: the whole ocean was one wound: the earth grew red with reeking gore: the sword grinned at the coats of mail: the sword cleft the shields asunder.
We fought with swords: I well remember that no one fled that day in the battle before in the ships Herauder fell. There does not a fairer warrior divide the ocean with his vessels. This prince ever brought to the battle a gallant heart.
We fought with swords: the army cast away their shields. Then flew the spear to the breasts of the warriors. The sword in the fight cut the very rocks: the shield was all besmeared with blood, before king Rafno fell, our foe. The warm sweat run down from the heads on the coats of mail.
We fought with swords, before the isles of Indir. We gave ample prey for the ravens to rend in pieces: a banquet for the wild beasts that feed on flesh. At that time all were valiant: it were difficult to single out any one. At the rising of the sun, I saw the lances pierce: the bows darted the arrows from them.
We fought with swords: loud was the din of arms; before king Eistin fell in the field. Thence, enriched with golden spoils, we marched to fight in the land of Vals. There the sword cut the painted shields. In the meeting of helmets, the blood ran from the wounds: it ran down from the cloven skulls of men.
We fought with swords, before Boring-holmi. We held bloody shields: we stained our spears. Showers of arrows broke the shield in pieces. The bow sent forth the glittering steel. Volnir fell in the conflict, than whom there was not a greater king. Wide on the shores lay the scattered dead: the wolves rejoiced over their prey.
We fought with swords, in the Flemings land: the battle widely raged before king Freyr fell therein. The blue steel all reeking with blood fell at length upon the golden mail. Many a woman bewailed the laughter of that morning. The beasts of prey had ample spoil.
We fought with swords, before Ainglanes. There saw I thousands lie dead in the ships: we failed to the battle for six days before the army fell. There we celebrated a mass of weapons. At rising of the sun Valdiofur fell before our swords.
We fought with swords, at Bardafyrda. A mower of blood rained from our weapons. Headlong fell the pallid corpse a prey for the hawks. The bow gave a twanging found. The blade sharply bit the coats of mail: it bit the helmet in the fight. The arrow sharp with poison and all besprinkled with bloody sweat ran to the wound.
We fought with swords, before the bay of Hiadning. We held aloft magic shields in the play of battle. Then might you see men, who rent shields with their swords. The helmets were mattered in the murmur of the warriors. The pleasure of that day was like having a fair woman placed beside one in the bed.
We fought with swords, in the Northumbrian land. A furious storm descended on the shields: many a lifeless body fell to the earth. It was about the time of the morning, when the foe was compelled to fly in the battle. There the sword sharply bit the polished helmet. The pleasure of that day was like killing a young widow at the highest seat of the table.
We fought with swords, in the isles of the south. There Herthiose proved victorious: there died many of our valiant warriors. In the mower of arms Rogvaldur fell: I lost my son. In the play of arms came the deadly spear: his lofty crest was dyed with gore. The birds of prey bewailed his fall: they loft him that prepared them banquets.
We fought with swords, in the Irish plains. The bodies of the warriors lay intermingled. The hawk rejoiced at the play of swords. The Irish king did not act the part of the eagle. Great was the conflict of sword and shield. King Marstan was killed in the bay: he was given a prey to the hungry ravens.
We fought with swords: the spear resounded: the banners shone upon the coats of mail. I saw many a warrior fall in the morning: many a hero in the contention of arms. Here the sword reached betimes the heart of my son: it was Egill deprived Agnar of life. He was a youth, who never knew what it was to fear.
We fought with swords, at Skioldunga. We kept our words: we carved out with our weapons a plenteous banquet for the wolves of the sea. The ships were all besmeared with crimson, as if for many days the maidens had brought and poured forth wine. All rent was the mail in the clash of arms.
We fought with swords, when Harold fell. I saw him struggling in the twilight of death; that young chief so proud of his flowing locks: he who spent his mornings among the young maidens: he who loved to converse with the handsome widows.
We fought with swords: we fought three kings in the isle of Lindis. Few had reason to rejoice that day. Many fell into the jaws of the wild-beasts. The hawk and the wolf tore the flesh of the dead: they departed glutted with their prey. The blood of the Irish fell plentifully into the ocean, during the time of that slaughter.
We fought with swords, at the isle of Onlug. The uplifted weapon bit the shields. The gilded lance grated on the mail. The traces of that fight will be seen for ages. There kings marched up to the play of arms. The mores of the sea were stained with blood. The lances appeared like flying dragons.
We fought with swords. Death is the happy portion of the brave, for he stands the foremost against the storm of weapons. He, who flies from danger, often bewails his miserable life. Yet how difficult is it to rouze up a coward to the play of arms? The dastard feels no heart in his bosom.
We fought with swords. Young men should march up to the conflict of arms: man should meet man and never give way. In this hath always consisted the nobility of the warrior. He, who aspires to the love of his mistress, ought to be dauntless in the clash of arms.
We fought with swords. Now I find for certain that we are drawn along by fate. Who can evade the decrees of destiny? Could I have thought the conclusion of my life reserved for Ella; when almost expiring I shed torrents of blood? When I launched forth my ships into the deep? When in the Scottish gulphs I gained large spoils for the wolves?
We fought with swords: this fills me still with joy, because I know a banquet is preparing by the father of the gods. Soon, in the splendid hall of Odin, we shall drink out of vessels from the curved wood of heads. A brave man shrinks not at death. I shall utter no repining words as I approach Valhalla.
(Editor’s note: Early mistranslation had the Norse drinking out of human skulls instead of drinking horns.)
We fought with swords. Oh that the sons of Aslauga knew; Oh that my children knew the sufferings of their father! That numerous serpents filled with poison tear me to pieces! Soon would they be here: soon would they wage bitter war with their swords. I gave a mother to my children from whom they inherit a valiant heart.
We fought with swords. Now I touch on my last moments. I receive a deadly hurt from the viper. A serpent inhabits the hall of my heart. Soon all my sons black their swords in the blood of Ella. They wax red with fury: they burn with rage. Those gallant youths will not rest till they have avenged their father.
We fought with swords. Battles fifty and one have been fought under my banners. From my early youth I learned to dye my sword in crimson: I never yet could find a king more valiant than myself. The gods now invite me to them. Death is not to be lamented.
It is with joy I cease. The valkyrie come to fetch me. Odin has sent them from his hall. I will be joyfully received into the highest seat; I will quaff full goblets among the gods. The hours of my life are passed. I die laughing.
submitted by TheGrinningViking to Norse

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