Oh, Folde! Food-filled | bright fruits you sell
For nobles and needy | all need you fulfill
Mother of mankind | Mother of Þunor
Might and main | are your gifts to mete
Through summer’s end, Oh, Eorðe! | our effort sustain
As ever we endeavor | your gifts to earn
May your consequence continue | and acclaim accrue
Be growing, Oh, Governess! | in the Gods’ embrace
Hail to you Hrúsan | Holiest Mother!
-by Bardawulf