'There would be no pelts of the reindeer, flung down at thy cave for a gift,

Nor dole of the oily timber that comes on the Baltic drift;
No store of well-drilled needles, nor ouches of amber pale;
No new-cut tongues of the bison, nor meat of the stranded whale.

'Thou hast not toiled at the fishing when the sodden trammels freeze,
Nor worked the war-boats outward through the rush of the rock-staked seas,
Yet they bring thee fish and plunder—full meal and an easy bed—
And all for the sake of thy pictures.' And Ung held down his head.

'Thou hast not stood to the Aurochs when the red snow recks of the fight;

Men have no time at the houghing to count his curls aright.