| |
Translated by William Sidney Walker
ACROSS the sea came the Sinclair brave, | |
| And he steered for the Norway border; | |
| In Gulbrand valley he found his grave, | |
| Where his merrymen fell in disorder. | |
| |
| Across the sea came the Sinclair brave, | 5 |
| To fight for the gold of Gustavus; | |
| God help thee, chief! from the Norway glaive | |
| No other defender can save us. | |
| |
| The moon rode high in the blue night-cloud, | |
| And the waves round the bark rippled smoothly; | 10 |
| When the mermaid rose from her watery shroud, | |
| And thus sang the prophetess soothly: | |
| |
| “Return, return, thou Scottish wight! | |
| Or thy light is extinguished in mourning; | |
| If thou goest to Norway, I tell thee right, | 15 |
| No day shall behold thy returning.” | |
| |
| “Now loud thou liest, thou sorceress old! | |
| Thy prophecies ever are sore; | |
| If once I catch thee within my hold, | |
| Thou never shalt prophesy more.” | 20 |
| |
| He sailed three days, he sailed three nights, | |
| He and his merrymen bold; | |
| The fourth he neared old Norway’s heights,— | |
| I tell you the tale as ’t is told. | |
| |
| On Romsdale coast has he landed his host, | 25 |
| And lifted the flag of ruin; | |
| Full fourteen hundred, of mickle boast, | |
| All eager for Norway’s undoing. | |
| |
| They scathe, they ravage, where’er they light, | |
| Justice or ruth unheeding; | 30 |
| They spare not the old for his locks so white, | |
| Nor the widow for her pleading. | |
| |
| They slew the babe on his mother’s arm, | |
| As he smiled so sweet on his foemen: | |
| But the cry of woe was the war-alarm, | 35 |
| And the shriek was the warrior’s omen. | |
| |
| The Baun 1 flamed high, and the message-wood ran | |
| Swiftly o’er field and o’er furrow; | |
| No hiding-place sought the Gulbranders then, | |
| As the Sinclair shall find to his sorrow. | 40 |
| |
| “Ye men of Norway, arise, arise! | |
| Fight for your king and your laws; | |
| And woe to the craven wretch that flies, | |
| And grudges his blood in the cause!” | |
| |
| And all of Lesso, and Vog, and Lon, | 45 |
| With axes full sharp on their shoulders, | |
| To Bredeboyd in a swarm are gone, | |
| To talk with the Scottish soldiers. | |
| |
| Close under Lid lies a pathway long, | |
| The swift-flowing Laugen runs by it; | 50 |
| We call it Kring in our northern tongue; | |
| There wait we the foemen in quiet. | |
| |
| No more on the wall hangs the rifle-gun, | |
| For the gray marksman aims at the foemen; | |
| Old Nokken mounts from the waters dun, | 55 |
| And waits for the prey that is coming. | |
| |
| The first shot hit the brave Sinclair right, | |
| He fell with a groan full grievous; | |
| The Scots beheld the good colonel’s plight, | |
| Then said they, “Saint Andrew receive us!” | 60 |
| |
| “Ye Norway men, let your hearts be keen! | |
| No mercy to those who deny it.” | |
| The Scots then wished themselves home, I ween; | |
| They liked not this Norway diet. | |
| |
| We strewed with bodies the long pathway, | 65 |
| The ravens they feasted full deep; | |
| The youthful blood that was spilt that day | |
| The maidens of Scotland may weep. | |
| |
| No Scottish flower was left on the stem, | |
| No Scotsman returned to tell | 70 |
| How perilous ’t is to visit them | |
| Who in mountains of Norway dwell. | |
| |
| And still on the spot stands a statue high, | |
| For the foemen of Norway’s discerning; | |
| And woe to him who that statue can spy, | 75 |
| And feels not his spirit burning! | |
