Thyrfing

Torn and bloody our clothes they are
As we march home from a battle afar
Victorious we were, the raven's were with us
A glorious triumph was reached by dusk
We drink our mead in the light of the funeral pyre
Just as the flames, our cups are raised higher and higher
We drink to our brothers who in this battle have fallen
We hail thee, whom the god's have callen