| |
| LOUD rolleth the rune, the martial rune | |
| Of the Norse King-harpist bold; | |
| He ’s proud of his line, he ’s erect as the pine | |
| That springs on the mountains old. | |
| Through the hardy North, when his song goes forth, | 5 |
| It rings like the clash of steel; | |
| Yet we have not a fear, for his heart ’s sincere, | |
| And his blasts we love to feel. | |
| |
| Then, hi! for the storm, | |
| The wintry storm, | 10 |
| That maketh the stars grow dim; | |
| Not a nerve shall fail, | |
| Not a heart shall quail, | |
| When he rolls his grand old hymn. | |
| |
| Oh, hale and gay is that Norse King grey, | 15 |
| And his limbs are both stout and strong; | |
| His eye is as keen as a falchion’s sheen | |
| When it sweeps to avenge a wrong. | |
| The Aurora’s dance is his merry glance, | |
| As it speeds through the starry fields; | 20 |
| And his anger falls upon Odin’s halls | |
Like the crash of a thousand shields.
Then, hi! for the storm, &c. | |
| |
| His stately front has endured the brunt | |
| Of Scythian rack and gale, | |
| As the vengeful years clashed their icy spears | 25 |
| On the boss of his glancing mail; | |
| When he steps in his pride from his halls so wide, | |
| He laughs with a wild refrain; | |
| And the Elfins start from the iceberg’s heart, | |
And echo his laugh again.
Then, hi! for the storm, &c. | 30 |
| |
| When the woods are stirred by the antlered herd, | |
| He comes like a Nimrod bold, | |
| And the forest groans as his mighty tones | |
| Swoop down on the startled fold; | |
| In his mantle white he defies the Night, | 35 |
| With the air of a King so free; | |
| Then hurrah for the rune, the North-King’s rune, | |
For his sons, his sons are we!
Then, hi! for the storm, &c. | |
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