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Then an old harrower of the darkHappened to find the heard open, The burning one who hunts our barrows, The slick-skinned dragon, threatening the night skyWith streamers of fire. People on the farmsAre in dread of him. He is driven to hunt out Hoards under ground, to guard heathen goldThrough age-long vigils, though to little avail.For three centuries, this scourge of the peopleHad stood guard on that stoutly protectedUnderground treasury, until the intruder Unleashed his fury; he hurried to his lord With the gold-plated cup and made his pleaTo be reinstated. Then the vault was rifled, The ring-hoard robbed, and the wretched manHad his request granted. His master gazedOn that find from the past for the first time.

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