Fortunate is he who is favoured in his lifetime With praise and words of wisdom: Evil counsel is often given By those of evil heart, Blessed is he who in his own lifetime Is awarded praise and wit, For ill counsel is often given By mortal men to each other, Better gear than good sense A traveller cannot carry, Better than riches for a wretched man, Far from his own home, Better gear than good sense A traveller cannot carry, A more tedious burden than too much drink A traveller cannot carry, Less good than belief would have it Is mead for the sons of men: A man knows less the more he drinks, Becomes a befuddled fool, I-forget is the name men give the heron Who hovers over the fast: Fettered I was in his feathers that night, When a guest in Gunnlod’s court Drunk I got, dead drunk, When Fjalar the wise was with me: Best is the banquet one looks back on after, And remembers all that happened, Silence becomes the Son of a prince, To be silent but brave in battle: It befits a man to be merry and glad Until the day of his death, The coward believes he will live forever If he holds back in the battle, But in old age he shall have no peace Though spears have spared his limbs When he meets friends, the fool gapes, Is shy and sheepish at first, Then he sips his mead and immediately All know what an oaf he is, He who has seen and suffered much, And knows the ways of the world, Who has travelled’, can tell what spirit Governs the men he meets, Drink your mead, but in moderation, Talk sense or be silent: No man is called discourteous who goes To bed at an early hour. A gluttonous man who guzzles away Brings sorrow on himself: At the table of the wise he is taunted often, Mocked for his bloated belly, The herd knows its homing time, And leaves the grazing ground: But the glutton never knows how much His belly is able to hold, An ill tempered, unhappy man Ridicules all he hears, Makes fun of others, refusing always To see the faults in himself Foolish is he who frets at night, And lies awake to worry.
