“The soldiers have follow’d the King to the war,
Ourselves must arm us, brothers! 
And he who here his life will spare
Shall be damn’d as a cur by the others.”

The peasants of Vaage, of Laxoe and Lom,
With axes sharp and heavy,
To the gathering at Bredaboig, one and all, come,
On the Scots fierce war to levy.

A pass, which all men Kringe call,
By the foot of the mountain goeth;
The Lauge, wherein the Scots shall fall,
Close, close beside it floweth.

The aged shooters are taking aim,
Each gun has been call’d into duty;
The Naik {54} his wet beard uplifts from the stream,
And with longing expects his booty.

Sir Sinclair fell the first, with a yell
His soul escap’d him for ever,
Each Scot loud cried when his leader died;
“May the Lord-God us deliver!”

“Now fierce on the dogs, ye jolly Norse-men,
To the chine strike down and cleave them!”
Then the Scots would fain be at home again,
Their vaunty spirits leave them.

Filling their craws to their hearts content
’Midst carnage the ravens wander’d;
The Scottish maids shall long lament
The young blood on the Kringe squander’d.

Not a single man escap’d, not one,
To his landsmen to tell the story;
’Tis a perilous thing to invade who wone
On Norroway’s mountains hoary.

A pillar still towers on that self-same spot,
Which Norraway’s foes defyeth;
To the Norman wo, whose heart glows not
When he that pillar eyeth.

HVIDFELD.

From the Danish.

Our native land has ever teem’d
With warriors gallant-hearted,
Who bravery as their duty deem’d,
And ne’er from danger started;
Such Tordenskiold, and Adeler,
And Juul, and many others were. 
Our native land has ever teem’d
With warriors gallant-hearted.

But who had e’er of bravery
The gallant Hvidfeld’s measure? 
Who e’er saw Death so plain as he,
And enter’d it with pleasure? 
Ne’er shall his name oblivion meet,
For with his death he sav’d our fleet. 
Our native land has ever teem’d
With warriors gallant-hearted.

’Gainst numerous foes we fought one day
A fight so fierce and gory,
And next the foe Sir Hvidfeld lay,
To danger close and glory;
And there was no man fought so stout
As Hvidfeld fought, that bloody bout. 
Our native land has ever teem’d
With warriors gallant-hearted.

But as Sir Hvidfeld broadsides loud
Lay taking and returning,
His own fire set his vessel proud,
His Dannebrog, a burning. 
“Slip anchor, Sir,” his sailors cry,
“To land for safety let us fly!”
Our native land has ever teem’d
With warriors gallant-hearted.

“No!” answer’d he, “for danger then
’Midst Denmark’s fleet we carry;
Shall it be risk’d by Danish men,
That they alive may tarry? 
We’ll die, but we’ll avenge our death;
We’ll fight until our latest breath.” 
Our native land has ever teem’d
With warriors gallant hearted.