Narfi stood by the kettle, and when they had finished the boiling, he took up a black-pudding and thrust it under Cormac's nose, crying:-- (11) "Cormac, how would ye relish one?
Kettle-worms I call them." To which he answered:-- (12) "Black-puddings boiled, quoth Ogmund's son, Are a dainty,--fair befall them!" And in the evening when Cormac made ready to go home he saw Narfi, and bethought him of those churlish words.

"I think, Narfi," said he, "I am more like to knock thee down, than thou to rule my coming and going." And with that struck him an axe-hammer-blow, saying:-- (13) "Why foul with thy clowning and folly, The food that is dressed for thy betters?
Thou blundering archer, what ails thee To be aiming thy insults at me ?" And he made another song about:-- (14) "He asked me, the clavering cowherd If I cared for--what was it he called them ?-- The worms of the kettle.

I warrant He'll be wiping his eyes by the hearth-stone.
I deem that yon knave of the dunghill Who dabbles the muck on the meadow -- Yon rook in his mud-spattered raiment-- Got a rap for his noise--like a dog.".