Hamðismál, a reading
Episode Stats
Harmful content
Toxicity
3
sentences flagged
Hate speech
11
sentences flagged
Summary
The Ballad of Hampthismal, the concluding poem in The Clerics of Regius, is on the whole the worst preserved through all the poems in the collection. It is a patchwork, so pronounced that it can hardly be regarded as a coherent poem at all.
Transcript
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The Hamthismal, the concluding poem in the Clerics of Regius, is on the whole the worst
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preserved through all the poems in the collection.
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The origin of the story, the relation of the Hamthismal to the Guthranar Havot and of both
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poems to the hypothetical old Hamthismal are outlined in the introductory note to the
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The Haunt as Small as We Have It is certainly not the old poem of that name.
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Indeed, it is so pronounced a patchwork that it can hardly be regarded as a coherent poem
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Some of the stanzas are in Fornisarag, some are in Marahattar, one appears to be
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in Lothahattar, and in many cases the words can be adapted to any known metrical form
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That any one should have deliberately composed such a poem seems quite incredible, and it
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is far more likely that some 11th century narrator constructed a poem about the death
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of Hamther and Sorli by piecing together various fragments and possibly adding a number of
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It has been argued, and with apparently sound logic, that our extant Hamther small originated
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in Greenland, along with the Altamal. In any case, it can hardly have been put together
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before the latter part of the 11th century, although the old Humphysmal undoubtedly long
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antedates this period. Many editors have contempted to pick out the parts of the extant poem which
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were borrowed from this older lay, but the condition of the text is such that it is by
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no means clear even what stanzas aren't in Fornis' Log and what in Malahatar.
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Many editors likewise indicate gaps and omissions, but it seems doubtful whether the extant
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Hoptus Malah ever had a really consecutive quality, its component fragments having apparently
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been strung together with little regard for continuity.
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The notes indicate some of the more important editorial suggestions, but make no attempt
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to cover all of them, and the metrical form of the translation is often based on mere
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guesswork as to the character of the original lines and stances.
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Despite the chaotic state of the text, however, the underlying narrative is reasonably clear,
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and the story can be followed with no great difficulty.
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Great the evils once that grew, With the dawning sad of the sorrow of elves.
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In early morn, awake for men, The evils that grief to each shall bring.
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Not now nor yet of yesterday was it, Long the time that since hath lapsed,
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So that little there is that is half as old, Since Guthrum, daughter of Gjoki, wedded,
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The sister ye had was Svanhild called, And her did Jormenrek trample with horses.
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White and black on the battle way, Gray rode wanted the steeds of the Goths.
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the kings of the folk are ye like, for now ye are living alone of my race. Lonely am
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I as the forest aspen, of kindred bare as the fir of its boughs. My joys are all lost
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as the leaves of the tree, with the scather of twigs from the warm day turns.
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Small praise didst thou, Guthrun, to Hogni's deed give,
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When they waken thy cigarette from out of his sleep,
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Thou didst sit on the bed while the slayers laughed.
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From his wounds and with gore of thy husband were wet,
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Thou wilt strike it at thee by the slaying of Herb,
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And the killing of Eitel, thine own grief was worse.
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So should each one wield the wound-biting sword,
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What hast thou, Guthron, that will give thee no tears?
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For thy brothers dost weep, and thy boys so sweet,
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Like kinsmen in birth on the battlefield slain.
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We sit doomed on our steeds, and far hence shall we die.
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Slender-fingered spake with her sons, Ye shall danger have, if counsel ye he not.
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By two heroes alone shall two hundred of Goths Be bound or be slain in a lofty walled burg.
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From the courtyard they fared, In fury they breathed.
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The youth swiftly went o'er the mountains wet, On their hunnish steeds thus vengeance
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to have, On the way they found a man so wise.
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What help from the weakling brown may we have?
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So answered them their half-brother then, So well may I, my kinsman aid, as help one
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How may a foot its fellow aid On a flesh-grown hand another help?
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Then Earp spake forth, his words were few, As haughty he sat on his horse's back.
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To the timid tis they ill, The way to tell,
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A bastard day the bold one called, On their sheaths they drew,
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Their shining swords, their blades to the giantess joy to give.
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By a third they lessened the might that was theirs,
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Their cloaks they shook, their swords they sheathed,
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And their sister's son on the tree they saw, On the wind-cold wolf-tree west of the hill,
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And Crane's bait crawled, None would care to linger,
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On the horse's hoofs could no one hear, Till the warrior hardy sounded his horn,
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Then came in the tale to Jorminric told, How warriors helmed without they beheld.
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Take counsel wise, for brave ones are come, Of mighty men thou desist, or didst murder.
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Then Jorminric laughed, His hand laid on his beard,
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His arms, for with wine he was warlike, He called for.
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He shook his brown locks, on his white shield he looked, and raised high the cup of gold
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Hoppy, methinks, were I to behold, hamper and sorely, here in my hall.
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The men would I bind, with strings of bows, and gricky's airs, on the gallows hang.
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In the hall was clamber, the cups were shattered, men stood in blood from the breast of the
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the Goths. Then did Hamther speak forth the haughty of heart.
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Thou soughtest Jormenric us to see, sons of one mother seeking thy dwelling. Thou seest
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thy hands, thy feet thou beholdest, Jormenric flung in the fire so hot.
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Then roared the king of the race of the gods, bold in his armor, as roars a bear,
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Stone, ye the men, that steel will not bite, sword, no spear, the sons of Yannick.
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Ill didst win, brother, when the bag thou didst open
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Great our fame, though we die today or tomorrow
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None out lives the night when the Norris have spoken
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