gold,
    He shall look through stall and stable, he shall ride by field and
      fold,
    And no ounce from the weight shall be lacking, of his beasts shall
      lack no head,
    If no thief hath stolen from Gunnar, if no beast in his land lie dead. 
    Yea henceforth let our lives be as one, let our wars and our
      wayfarings blend,
    That my name with thine may be told of when the song is sung in the
      end,
    That the ancient war-spent Atli may sit and laugh with delight
    O’er thy feet the swift in battle, o’er thine hand uplifted to smite.”

So spake the guileful Knefrud mid the silence of the wise,
Nor once his cold voice faltered, nor once he sank his eyes: 
Then spake the glorious Gunnar: 
“We hear King Atli’s voice. 
And the heart is glad within us that he biddeth us rejoice: 
Yet the thing shall be seen but seldom that a Niblung fares from his
land
With eyes by the gold-lust blinded, with the greedy griping hand. 
When thou farest aback unto Atli, thou shalt tell him how thou hast
been
In the house of the Westland Gunnar, and what things thine eyes have
seen: 
Thou shalt tell of the seven store-houses with swords filled through
and through,
Gold-hilted, deftly smithied, in the Southland wave made blue: 
Thou shalt tell of the house of the treasures and the Gold that lay
erewhile
On the Glittering Heath of murder ’neath the heart of the Serpent’s
guile: 
Thou shalt note our glittering hauberk, thou shalt strive to bend our
bow,
Thou shalt look on the shield of Gunnar that its white face thou mayst
know: 
Thou shalt back the Niblung war-steed when the west wind blows its
most,
And see if it over-run thee; thou shalt gaze on the Niblung host
And be glad of the friends of Atli; thou shalt fare through stable and
stall,
And tell over the tale of the beast-kind, if the night forbear to fall;
Through the horse-mead shalt thou wander, through the meadows of the
sheep,
But forbear to count their thousands lest thou weary for thy sleep;
Thou shalt look if the barns be empty, though the wheat-field whiteneth
now,
In the midmost of the summer in the fields men cared to plough;
Thou shalt dwell with men that lack not, and the tillers fair and fain;
Thou shalt see, and long, and wonder, and tell thy King of his gain;
For in all that here thou beholdest hath he portion even as we;
Sweet bloometh his love in our midmost, and the fair time yet may be,
When we twain shall meet and be merry; and sure when our lives are done
No more shall men sunder our glory than the Gods have rent the sun. 
Sit, mighty man, and be joyous:  and then shalt thou cast us a word
And say how fareth our sister mid the glory of her lord.”