It hangs beneath my eyes

catching stray food better than flies.

I wash it with mead

and soak it with ale.

It is the very picture of my zeal.

 

With age come strength.

And strength bows its head to gray wisdom.

Its glory grows the greater.

 

As it lengthens each day,

it becomes harder to keep the maidens away.

A shield maid

loves a strongly bearded man.

 

Of the bearded ones

among my tribe,

none can stand by my side.

 

Its glory is my song.

Its color, though the color of good steel,

will better younger men

no matter their zeal.

My beard is the greatest that can be.

Just touch it and see.