Men live that serve the stranger;
⁠Hounds live that huntsmen tame:
These life-days of our living
Are days of God's good giving
Where death smiles soft on danger
⁠And life scowls dark on shame.

And what would you do other,
⁠Sweet wife, if you were I?
And how should you be other,
My sister, than your brother,
⁠If you were man as I,
Born of our sire and mother,
⁠With choice to cower and fly,
⁠And chance to strike and die?

No churl's our oldworld name is,
⁠The lands we leave are fair:
But fairer far than these are,
But wide as all the seas are,
But high as heaven the fame is
⁠That if we die we share.