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.
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