the Gudbranddalesman he grovelled for grace,
but his hoard must e'en ransom his head.
King Skule south over Miösen fared,—
the Uplander cursed at his banner;
King Skule hasted through Raumarike
to Låka in Nannestad manor.
'Twas all in the holy Shrove-tide week
we met with the Birchleg horde;
Earl Knut was their captain—the swords with
loud tongue
in the suit for the throne made award.
They say of a truth that since Sverre's days
was never so hot a fight;
red-sprent, like warriors' winding-sheets,
grew the upland that erst lay white.
They took to their heels did the Birchenlegs,
flinging from them both buckler and bill there;
many hundreds, though, took to their heels
nevermore,
for they lay and were icily chill there.
No man knows where King Håkon hideth;—
King Skule stands safe at the helm.
All hail and long life to thee, lord, in thy state
as King of all Norway's realm!
Skule's Men.
[Spring up with loud jubilation, hold goblets and beakers aloft, clash their weapons, and repeat:
All hail and long life to thee, lord, in thy state as King of all Norway's realm!
King Skule.
Thanks for the song, Jatgeir Skald! 'Tis as
