Rune XXIII-g

"Thus did I, a youthful housewife, At the right time, all my duties, Drenched myself in perspiration, Hoped for better times to follow; But I only rose to labor, Knowing neither rest nor pleasure. I was blamed by all the household, With ungrateful tongues derided, Now about my awkward manners, Now about my reputation, Censuring my name and station. Words unkind were heaped upon me, Fell like hail on me unhappy, Like the frightful flash of lightning, Like the heavy hail of spring-time. I did not despair entirely, Would have lived to labor longer Underneath the tongue of malice, But the old-one spoiled Lay temper, Roused my deepest ire and hatred Then my husband grew a wild-bear, Grew a savage wolf of Hisi. "Only then I turned to weeping, And reflected in my chamber, Thought of all my former pleasures Of the happy days of childhood, Of my father's joyful firesides, Of my mother's peaceful cottage, Then began I thus to murmur: 'Well thou knowest, ancient mother, How to make thy sweet bud blossom, How to train thy tender shootlet; Did not know where to ingraft it, Placed, alas! the little scion In the very worst of places, On an unproductive hillock, In the hardest limb of cherry, Where it could not grow and flourish, There to waste its life, in weeping, Hapless in her lasting sorrow. Worthier had been my conduct In the regions that are better, In the court-yards that are wider, In compartments that are larger, Living with a loving husband, Living with a stronger hero. Shoe of birch-bark was my suitor, Shoe of Laplanders, my husband; Had the body of a raven, Voice and visage like the jackdaw, Mouth and claws were from the black-wolf, The remainder from the wild-bear. Had I known that mine affianced Was a fount of pain and evil, To the hill-side I had wandered, Been a pine-tree on the highway, Been a linden on the border, Like the black-earth made my visage, Grown a beard of ugly bristles, Head of loam and eyes of lightning, For my ears the knots of birches, For my limbs the trunks of aspens.' "This the manner of my singing In the hearing of my husband, Thus I sang my cares and murmurs Thus my hero near the portals Heard the wail of my displeasure, Then he hastened to my chamber; Straightway knew I by his footsteps, Well concluded be was angry, 'Knew it by his steps implanted; All the winds were still in slumber, Yet his sable locks stood endwise, Fluttered round his bead in fury, While his horrid mouth stood open; To and fro his eyes were rolling, In one hand a branch of willow, In the other, club of alder; Struck at me with might of malice, Aimed the cudgel at my forehead. "When the evening had descended, When my husband thought of slumber Took he in his hand a whip-stalk, With a whip-lash made of deer-skin, Was not made for any other, Only made for me unhappy. "When at last I begged for mercy, When I sought a place for resting, By his side I courted slumber, Merciless, my husband seized me, Struck me with his arm of envy, Beat me with the whip of torture, Deer-skin-lash and stalk of birch-wood.