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Red patterns vague by the creeping mist,

of flooding blood forsaking (warriors') skins.

A passage adorned by too many slain,

and on top of the hill a mighty Heathen calls - victorious again...

With a hail of beastly form, oh Thunderer he calls,

man's guardian rise, mighty Thor rise, rise...

Barbaric offerings to the gods have been made,

of invaders blood on the battlefield.

Far too strong to subdue; the heathen lord - the barbarian.

Oh, heed our call until the day we fall.

Ride onwards to the fields, with shouts that pierce the skies.