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Translation of poem:
(138)
I know that I hung, on a windy tree, for all of nine nights, wounded with a spear, and given to Óðinn, myself to myself, on that tree, which no man knows, from what roots it runs.
(139)
They gave me no bread. They gave me no mead. I looked down, with a loud cry I took up runes from that tree I fell.
(140)
Potent songs nine from the famed son I learned of Bölthorn, Bestla’s sire,and a draught obtained of the precious mead, drawn from Odhrærir.
(These are rough translations from various sources)