Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World By G. W. Thornbury |
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THE NORSEMAN'S WAR-SONG. |
 | Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World |  |
THE NORSEMAN'S WAR-SONG.
Up, Bersekers! up, with the trample and roar
Of the waves that burst in on an iron-bound shore,
With the pride and the might of the surf o'er a reef,
To the sword-dance, with clamour, let's follow the chief.
Of the waves that burst in on an iron-bound shore,
With the pride and the might of the surf o'er a reef,
To the sword-dance, with clamour, let's follow the chief.
Together, together, now push from the land;
Who will tarry at home by the smouldering brand?
As the blast of the tempest, the reed of the lake,
The war-axe and lance in our stout grasp shall shake.
Who will tarry at home by the smouldering brand?
As the blast of the tempest, the reed of the lake,
The war-axe and lance in our stout grasp shall shake.
Sharp in point and in edge as the walrus's tooth,
Neither sword-blade nor spear-point feel sorrow or ruth.
Pierce lance, and drink deep of the heart-blood within;
Come, cleave, thou good war-axe, the bone and the skin.
Neither sword-blade nor spear-point feel sorrow or ruth.
Pierce lance, and drink deep of the heart-blood within;
Come, cleave, thou good war-axe, the bone and the skin.
155
To-day we'll have vengeance, whatever betide;
We are coming, soon coming, in pomp and in pride.
What careth the storm for the withering tree!
God pity ye, cravens! no mercy have we.
We are coming, soon coming, in pomp and in pride.
What careth the storm for the withering tree!
God pity ye, cravens! no mercy have we.
The women and children pile logs on the hearth;
The banquet we'll share, with loud jest and fierce mirth;
Already the smoke-wreaths mount up to the sky,—
Already hot flames are up blazing on high.
The banquet we'll share, with loud jest and fierce mirth;
Already the smoke-wreaths mount up to the sky,—
Already hot flames are up blazing on high.
O long we have tarried for revel and spoil;
The hounds have long bayed round the wide empty toil.
We ate our last morsel in sorrow alone,
Till nothing was left but the white rattling bone.
The hounds have long bayed round the wide empty toil.
We ate our last morsel in sorrow alone,
Till nothing was left but the white rattling bone.
Up, warriors! up! ere the sun set to-day
Ye shall feast on the herds that we win in the fray;
The hot flames are mounting the heavens again—
On together, ye sons of the warrior men!
Ye shall feast on the herds that we win in the fray;
The hot flames are mounting the heavens again—
On together, ye sons of the warrior men!
[The Bersekers, mentioned in the first verse of this song, were a class of men known among the northern nations, who, making a vow at the altar of some sea god, stripped themselves to their tunic, and then, swallowing a cup of some intoxicating beverage, rushed almost naked into the army of the enemy. The deeds of these frantic men, as related in the Sagas, are quite herculean. They formed, in reality, a rude order of knighthood.]
| Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World | |