Make no tent on thy ship, never sleep in a house, for a foe
within doors you may view;
On his shield sleeps the viking; his sword in his hand, and
his tent is the heavenly blue.
When the storm rageth fierce, hoist the sail to the top--
O how merry the storm-king appears;
Let her drive! let her drive! better founder than strike,
for who strikes is a slave to his fears.
If a merchant sail by, you must shelter his ship, but the
weak will not tribute withhold;
You are king of the waves, he a slave to his gains; and
your steel is as good as his gold.
Let your goods be divided by lot or by dice, how it falls
you may never complain;
But the sea-king himself takes no part in the lots--he
considers the honour his gain.
If a viking-ship come, there is grappling and strife, and
the fight 'neath the shields will rejoice;
If you yield but a pace you are parted from us; 'tis the
law, you may act by your choice.
If you win, be content: he who, praying for peace, yields
his sword, is no longer a foe!
Prayer's a Valhalla-child, hear the suppliant voice; he's
a coward who answereth no.
Wounds are viking's reward, and the pride of the man
on whose breast or whose forehead they stand;
Let them bleed on unbound till the close of the day, if you
wish to be one of our band.