Childe Sinclair sailed from Scottish land,
Far Noroway to brave;
But he sleeps in Gulbrand's rocky strand,
Low in a bloody grave.
Childe Sinclair sailed the stormy sea,
To fight for Swedish gold;
"God speed thy warrlor hearts and thee,
And quell the Norseman bold !"
"He sailed a day, and two, and three,
He and his gallant hand;
The fourth sun saw him quit the sea,
And touch old Norway's strand.
On Romsdal's shore his soul was fain
To triumph or to fall;
He and his twice seven hundred men,
The gallant and the tall.
O stern and haughty was their wrath,
Cruel with sword and spear;
Nor houry age could check their path,
Nor widowed mother’s tear.
With bitter death, young babes they slew,
Though to the breast they clung;
And woful tidings, sad, but true,
Echoed from every tongue.
On hill and rock the beacons glared,
To tell of danger nigh;
The Norseman's sword was boldly bared,
The Scots must yield or die!
The warriors of the land are far,
They and their kingly lord;
Yet shame on him who shuns the war,
Or fears the foreign horde!
They march - they meet - the Norwayan host,
Have hearts both stern and free;
They gather on Bredalbigh's coast -
The Scots must yield or flee.
The Lauge flows in Leydeland,
Where Kringen's shadows fall;
Thither they march, that fated band,
A tomb to find for all.
In the onslaught first, Childe Sinclair died,
And ceased his haughty breath,
Stem sport for Scottish hearts to bide,
God shield them from the death!
Come forth, come forth, ye Norsemen true,
Light be your hearts to-day!
Fain would the Scots the ocean blue
Between the slaughter lay!
Their ranks yield to the leaden storm,
On high the ravens sail -
Ah me! for every mangled form
A Scottish maid shall wail!
They came a host with life and breath.
But one returned to say,
How fares the invader in the strife
He wars with Old Norway?
There is a mound by Lauge's tide,
The Norseman lingers near;
His eye is bright - but not with pride
It glistens with a- tear !"