Herr Sinclair sailed across the sea,

And steered his course to Norway's strand:

'Mid Gudbrands' rocks his grave found he,—

There were broken crowns in Sinclair's band.

Herr Sinclair sailed o'er the blue wave,

That he might fight for Swedish gold:

God help thee, man! thyself now save;

Thou'lt fall before the Norsemen bold.

The moon amid the pale night shone,

The waves around so gently rolled;

A mermaid rose on Sinclair's sight,

And thus prophetic evil told:—

"Turn back, turn back, thou Scottish man,

Or it will surely cost thy life;

For if thou com'st to Norway's strand,

Thou never more shalt join the strife."

"Thy songs are lies, thou witch most foul;

Thou ever sing'st the self-same tune.

Could I but get thee in my power,

In pieces small I'd have thee hewn."

He sailed a day, he sailed three,

With all his mercenary band;

The fourth he Norway's shore did see,—

On Romsdal's coast he leapt to land,

And with him fourteen hundred men:

On mischief all that band were bent;

They spared nor young nor aged then,

But slew and burnt as on they went.

The child they killed at mother's breast,

Nor cared how sweet soe'er its smile;

Of widows' tears they made a jest:

Sorrow's loud cry arose the while.

Throughout the land the wail resounds;

The heaven blazed; the cross of fire

Sped its swift course; and Sinclair soon

Shall feel the vengeful dalesman's ire.

The soldiers of the king are gone;

We must ourselves the land defend.

To shed his blood will ne'er grudge one;

On such may Heaven's wrath descend!

Peasants from Vaage, Lesje, Lom,

With axes sharp on shoulder set,

To parley with the Scots are come,

And now at Bredebygd are met.

There runs a path by mountain side

Which our vale-folk do Kringlen call,

And Laugen's stream beneath doth glide,—

In that shall our fierce foemen fall.

On walls no more our rifles hang;

The rocks are lined with marksmen gray;

The water-sprite lifts up its head,

And waits impatiently its prey.

The first shot pierced Herr Sinclair's breast,—

He groaned, and forth his spirit gave;

And as he fell, each Scot cried out,

"O God, in this our peril save!"

"On, peasants! on, Norwegian men!

Let each foe find a Sinclair's grave!"

The Scots now wished themselves home again,

And only strove their lives to save.

With corpses thick was Kringlen strewn;

High festal did the ravens keep;

The noblest blood that this day flowed

The Scottish maidens long did weep.

And not a soul of that array

To Scotland e'er returned to tell

His countrymen of that dark day,

And how the sad event befell.

'Mid Norway's mountains still there stands

A column raised upon the spot:

Let Norway's foes from other lands

Behold it, and despise it not.

No Norseman sees it rise on high,

But marks it with a flashing eye.

C. H.