And when he heard that Henry his son, his love for whom he set even before his own life, had fallen fighting valiantly, his soul longed for death, and loathed the light of day, and made a song in a strain like this: "What brave hath dared put on my armour?
The sheen of the helmet serves not him who tottereth, nor doth the breastplate fitly shelter him that is sore spent.

Our son is slain, let us riot in battle; my eager love for him driveth me to my death, that I may not be left outliving my dear child.

In each hand I am fain to grasp the sword; now without shield let us ply our warfare bare-breasted, with flashing blades.

Let the rumour of our rage beacon forth: boldly let us grind to powder the column of the foe; nor let the battle be long and chafe us; nor let our onset be shattered in rout and be still." When he had said this, he gripped his hilt with both hands, and, fearless of peril, swung his shield upon his back and slew many.

Hadding therefore called on the powers with which he was allied to protect him, and on a sudden Wagnhofde rode up to fight on his side.