Long ago the battle-gods were hunting (or: feasting on game), and desired ale to drink before they had eaten their fill. They shook the twigs and inspected the sacrificial blood, and discovered an abundance of cauldrons at Ægir's.

The cliff-dweller was sitting there, happy as a child, the spitting image of Miskorblindi's son. The child of Yggr looked him defiantly in the eye, saying: "You must prepare frequent ale-feasts for the gods!"

The importunate god provided toil and trouble for the giant, who now thought of a way to get even with the divine ones. He asked Sif's husband to fetch him a cauldron: "one that's big enough for me to brew ale for all of you!"

The glorious gods and the mighty rulers were unable to find such a cauldron anywhere, until Týr, ever the faithful friend, offered valuable advice to Hlórriði in private:

"Hymir, the cunning giant, dwells to the east of Élivágar, at heaven's end. He, my fierce father, owns a kettle, a capacious cauldron, which is a league deep."

Þórr: "Do you think we can get hold of that liquid-boiler?" Týr: "Yes, friend, if we use trickery!"

That day they went forth a long way from Ásgarðr, until they arrived at Egill's place. Leaving the magnificently horned goats in his care, they went on towards Hymir's hall.

Young Týr was first met by his grandmother, whom he loathed - she had nine hundred heads. But another lady came forth, all decked in gold and white of brow, and brought a draught of beer for her son.

"Scion of giants, I think I'd better hide you two brave lads beneath the cauldrons. My dear husband is often churlish towards guests, and has a foul temper."

The evil-natured giant, cold-hearted Hymir, came late home from the hunt. Icicles clattered, when the old one entered the hall: his cheek-forest was frozen..

"Greetings, Hymir, I hope you're in a good mood! Look who has come to your halls - the son that we've been expecting to return from his long journey. He is accompanied by Hróðr's foe, the friend of humans, the one called Véurr.

Look - there they are: sitting below the gable-end, hiding from you behind the pillar!" The pillar cracked at the giant's glance, and the cross-beam snapped in two.

Eight kettles plunged from the wooden beam and broke apart, but one heftily hammered cauldron survived the fall. The guests stepped forward, and the ancient giant took a good look at his adversary.

He had serious misgivings when he saw the grief-maker of the giantess standing there on his floor. The giant then ordered three bulls to be fetched, and cooked without delay.

The bulls were then deprived of their heads, and brought to the cooking-pit. Before he went to sleep, Sif's husband completely devoured two of Hymir's oxen all by himself.

It seemed to Hrungnir's hoary crony that Hlórriði's supper was quite enormous: "We will have to go hunting, if the three of us expect to have anything to eat tomorrow evening!"

Véurr said he wanted to row out to sea, if the fierce giant would provide him with bait. [Hymir:] "Go to the herd, if you dare, you smasher of cliff-Danes, and fetch us some bait!

I dare say it won't be easy for you to get bait from an ox!" The lad dashed nimbly towards the forest, where he came upon an ox, as black as pitch.

The high abode of two horns was snapped off the bull by the ogre's death-wisher. [Hymir:] "Your handiwork seems much worse to the boat-master, than what you do when you are sitting still!"

The lord of he-goats asked the kinsman of apes to take the dock-horse further out, but this particular giant expressed little eagerness in rowing any longer.

The mighty, ferocious Hymir had soon caught two whales with his hook, while back in the stern Véurr, Óðinn's family-member, skilfully made himself a fishing-line.

The lone slayer of the serpent, he who protects men, baited his hook with the head of the ox. From below, the one whom the gods hate, girdle of all lands, opened his maw wide at the bait.

The courageous Þórr boldly pulled the venom-gleaming serpent up to the gunwale, and, with his hammer, struck mightily at the hideous hair-summit of the wolf's battle-brother.

Giant monsters staggered, steep crags reverberated, the ancient earth was all ashudder - until that fish sank back into the sea.

Hymir was annoyed, when they started rowing back; the giant was silent at his oar, and swung the rudder about.

"Will you share the work equally with me? You can either carry the whales back to the farm, or secure our floating-goat."

Þórr walked up, grasped the prow, and alone hauled the ocean-steed ashore, along with the bilge-water, the oars, and the bilge-bucket. He then carried the surf-pigs to the giant's farm [through the hollow of the wooded ridge?].

But the giant was obstinate, and continued squabbling with Þórr about the latter's strength; a bit of vigourous rowing was no proof of a man's might, said Hymir, unless he could break the crystal goblet.

But Hlórriði, as soon as he had it in his hands, smashed the steep stone with the glass vessel. From where he sat, he hurled it through columns; nevertheless it was afterwards brought in one piece to Hymir.

Until the giant's fair wife taught him a valuable trick which she knew: "Strike it against Hymir's head, while the giant is weary with food - his skull is harder than any crystal goblet!"

The sturdy lord of goats rose to his feet, and filled himself with divine strength. The old man's helmet-stump remained intact, but the oval wine-path shattered.

"Many treasures have I lost, and now my goblet has been taken from me," said the old one. "Never again can I say: 'Ale, now you are brewed'.

But now we shall see if you're up to moving the ale-boat out of our temple." Týr tried twice to lift the cauldron, and both times failed to move it an inch.

Móði's father seized it by the rim, and his feet sank right through the floor of the hall. Sif's husband heaved the cauldron up on his head, and the handles banged against his heels.

They had walked for quite a while, when the son of Óðinn looked once behind him, and saw a troop of multi-headed warriors emerging with Hymir from rocky lairs in the east.

He lifted the cauldron off his shoulders, went forth wielding the murderous Mjöllnir, and slew every single one of the lava-whales.

They had only driven a short way, when one of Hlórriði's goats fell half-dead to the ground. The draught-beast's leg was broken, and this was wicked Loki's fault.

But you have heard - and any mythologist can report the exact details of this story - about the recompense he received from the lava-dweller, who gave him both his children.

The indomitable one arrived at the assembly of the gods, and brought with him the cauldron that had belonged to Hymir. Now truly the holy ones will drink ale at Ægir's feast [every winter?].