Once, Drota thy mother had her breast swell for thee; she bore me, and by her I am thy foster-brother.

Lo now, there perishes a righteous offspring, who had the heart to fight with savage spears; brothers born of a shining race charge and bring death on one another; while they long for the height of power, they lose their days, and, having now received a fatal mischief in their desire for a sceptre, they will go to Styx in a common death.

Fast by my head stands my Swedish shield, which is adorned with (as) a fresh mirror of diverse chasing, and ringed with layers of marvellous fretwork.

There a picture of really hues shows slain nobles and conquered champions, and the wars also and the notable deed of my right hand.

In the midst is to be seen, painted in bright relief, the figure of my son, whom this hand bereft of his span of life.