Fylgija Ear

Grave remains disgusting to every nobleman
When decaying flesh festers
The ground cruelly cools
Gifts go away, sheaves rot
Joy breaks away, agreements break

Ear is a source of grief to every nobleman
When flesh begins to grow fast
The corpse cools, the earth chooses
Black to the grave; blossoms wither
Joys depart, men deceive

Wealth is a comfort to every man
Yet each must share it generously with others
If he wishes to obtain honor from the Lord

Aurochs is fierce and horned
A very savage beast, fights with horns
A famous wanderer; that is a courageous creature

Thorn is very sharp to every thane
An evil thing, exceedingly severe
To every man who rests among them

Mouth is the source of all language
A comfort to the wise and a blessing to every warrior
And a joy to every nobleman

Riding is said to be for every warrior
Easy and swift, for those who sit on top
A strong steed over the mile-paths

Torch is known to every living being, seen in fire
Black and bright, it burns most often
Where princes rest inside

Hail is the whitest of grains; it whirls from the heavens' sky
It is tossed by the wind's showers; it turns to water thereafter

Need is oppressive to the heart; yet often it proves a source of help
To children and to each man, if he heeds it in time

Ice is very cold, exceedingly slippery
Gleaming glass-clear, most like gems
A floor wrought by frost, fair in appearance

Yew is a tree outside, a rough tree
Hard fast on the earth, guardian of fires
Supported by roots, joy in the homeland

Sun is ever a hope to seafarers
When they journey away over the fishes' bath
Until the courser of the deep bears them to land

Tyr is a token of a thing, it keeps faith well
With nobleman; it is always on a journey
Over the mists of night, never fails

Birch has no fruit, yet bears without seed
Boughs, beautiful in branches
High on the trunk, adorned fair
With leaves, touching the sky

Man is dear to his kin in joy
Yet each one must forsake the other
For the Lord wills his doom
That wretched flesh return to earth

Water seems to men a long time
If they must venture in a troubled ship
And the sea-tides terrify them greatly
And the sea-steed does not heed the bridle

Ear is a source of grief to every nobleman
When flesh begins to grow fast
The corpse cools, the earth chooses
Black to the grave; blossoms wither
Joys depart, men deceive