Charles Sangster (1822–1893)

LOUD rolleth the rune, the martial rune

Of the Norse King-harpist bold;

He ’s proud of his line, he ’s erect as the pine

That springs on the mountains old.

Through the hardy North, when his song goes forth,

It rings like the clash of steel;

Yet we have not a fear, for his heart ’s sincere,

And his blasts we love to feel.

Then, hi! for the storm,

The wintry storm,

That maketh the stars grow dim;

Not a nerve shall fail,

Not a heart shall quail,

When he rolls his grand old hymn.

Oh, hale and gay is that Norse King grey,

And his limbs are both stout and strong;

His eye is as keen as a falchion’s sheen

When it sweeps to avenge a wrong.

The Aurora’s dance is his merry glance,

As it speeds through the starry fields;

And his anger falls upon Odin’s halls

Like the crash of a thousand shields.

Then, hi! for the storm, &c.

His stately front has endured the brunt

Of Scythian rack and gale,

As the vengeful years clashed their icy spears

On the boss of his glancing mail;

When he steps in his pride from his halls so wide,

He laughs with a wild refrain;

And the Elfins start from the iceberg’s heart,

And echo his laugh again.

Then, hi! for the storm, &c.

When the woods are stirred by the antlered herd,

He comes like a Nimrod bold,

And the forest groans as his mighty tones

Swoop down on the startled fold;

In his mantle white he defies the Night,

With the air of a King so free;

Then hurrah for the rune, the North-King’s rune,

For his sons, his sons are we!

Then, hi! for the storm, &c.