Sir Sinclair sail’d from the Scottish ground,
To Norroway o’er he hasted;
On Guldbrand’s rocks his grave he found,
Where his corse in its gore is wasted.

Sir Sinclair sail’d o’er the blue, blue wave,
For Swedish pay he hath sold him,
God help the Scot, for the Norsemen brave
Shall biting the grass behold him.

The moon at night shed pale its light,
The billows are gently swelling;
See a mermaid merge from the briny surge,
To Sir Sinclair evil telling.

“Turn back, turn back, thou bonny Scot:
Thy purpose straight abandon:
To return will not be Sir Sinclair’s lot,
Should Sir Sinclair Norroway land on.”

“A curse on thy strain, thou imp of the main,
Who boding ill art ever!
For what thou dost preach, wert thou in my reach,
Thy limbs I would dissever.”

He sail’d for a day, he sail’d for three,
With all his hired legions;
On the fourth day’s morn Sir Sinclair he
Saw Norroway’s rocky regions.

On Romsdale’s sands he quickly lands,
Himself for a foe declaring;
Him follow’d then twelve hundred men
Such evil intentions bearing.

They vex’d the people, where’er they rov’d,
With pillage and conflagration;
Nor them old age’s feebleness mov’d,
Nor the widow’s lamentation.

The child was slain at the mother’s breast,
Though it smil’d on the murderous savage:
But soon went tidings, east and west,
Of all this wo and ravage.

From neighbour to neighbour the message runs,
On the mountain blaz’d the beacon;
Into lurking-holes crept not the valley’s sons,
As the Scots perchance might reckon.

“The soldiers have follow’d the King to the war,
Ourselves must arm us, brothers!
And he who here his life will spare
Shall be damn’d as a cur by the others.”

The peasants of Vaage, of Laxoe and Lom,
With axes sharp and heavy,
To the gathering at Bredaboig, one and all, come,
On the Scots fierce war to levy.

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 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.

Translation from Targum – Or Metrical Translations From Thirty Languages And Dialects by George Borrow. Provided under a Project Gutenberg license.

Herr Zinklar drog over salten Hav,
Til Norrig hans Cours monne stande;
Blant Gudbrands Klipper han fant sin Grav,
der vanked sí¥ blodig en Pande.
– Vel op fí¸r Dag,
de kommer vel over den Hede.

Herr Zinklar drog over Bí¸lgen blaa
For Svenske Penge at stride;
Hielpe dig Gud du visselig maa
I Gresset for Nordmanden bide.

Maanen skinner om Natten bleg,
De Vover saa sagtelig trille:
En Havfrue op av Vandet steeg
Hun spaaede Herr Zinklar ilde.

Vend om, vend om, du Skotske Mand!
Det gielder dit Liv saa fage,
Kommer du til Norrig, jeg siger for sand,
Ret aldrig du kommer tilbage.

Leed er din Sang, du giftige Trold!
Altidens du spaaer om Ulykker,
Fanger jeg dig en gang i Vold
Jeg lader dig hugge i Stykker.

Han seiled i Dage, han seiled i tre
Med alt sit hyrede Fí¸lge,
Den fierde Morgen han Norrig mon see,
Jeg vil det ikke fordí¸lge.

Ved Romsdals Kyster han styred til Land
Erklærede sig for en Fiende;
Ham fulgte fiorten hundrede Mand
Som alle havde ondt i Sinde.

De skiendte og brændte hvor de drog frem,
Al Folket monne de krænke,
Oldingens Afmakt rí¸rte ei dem,
De spottet den grædende Enke.

Barnet blev dræbt i Moderens Skií¸d,
Saa mildelig det end smiled;
Men Rygtet om denne Jammer og Ní¸d
Til Kiernen af Landet iled.

Baunen lyste og Budstikken lí¸b
Fra Grande til nærmeste Grande,
Dalens sí¸nner i skjiul ei krí¸b
Det mí¥tte Hr. Zinklar sande.

Soldaten er ude paa Kongens Tog,
Vi maae selv Landet forsvare;
Forbandet være det Niddings Drog,
Som nu sit Blod vil spare!

De Bí¸nder av Vaage, Lessí¸e og Lom,
Med skarpe í˜xer paa Nakke
I Bredebí¸igd til sammen kom,
Med Skotten vilde de snakke.

Tæt under Lide der lí¸ber en Stie,
Som man monne Kringen kalde,
Laugen skynder sig der forbi,
I den skal Fienderne falde.

Riflen hænger ei meer paa Væg,
Hist sigter graahærdede Skytte,
Ní¸kken oplí¸fter sit vaade Skiæg,
Og venter med Længsel sit Bytte.

Det fí¸rste Skud Hr. Zinklar gialdt,
Han brí¸led og opgav sin Aande;
Hver Skotte raabte, da Obersten faldt:
Gud frie os af denne Vaande!

Frem Bí¸nder! Frem I Norske Mænd!
Slaa ned, slaa ned for Fode!
Da í¸nsked sig Skotten hjem igien,
Han var ei ret lystig til Mode.

Med dí¸de Kroppe blev Kringen strí¸ed,
De Ravne fik nok at æde;
Det Ungdoms Blod, som her udflí¸d,
De Skotske Piger begræde.

Ei nogen levende Siel kom hjem,
Som kunde sin Landsmand fortælle,
Hvor farligt det er at besí¸ge dem
Der boe blandt Norriges Fielde.

End kneiser en Stí¸tte pí¥ samme Sted,
Som Norges Uvennner mon true.
Vee hver en Nordmand, som ei bliver heed,
Saa tit hans í˜ine den skue!