Across the whale-roads ride Sons of Thor
hulls bound for glory, heads painted for war
a-wing the drake-ships for distant shores
to carve our names in Ymir’s oar
                    Embark we the Norns bescyle!
Through fearsome storm, o’er water dark
six hundred sail, six hundred stark
for we see Hloridi in lighting arc’d
                    He heralds the Kings of the Isles

How bleak the face of Cape Wrath’s span
how rough the strait we pierce to land
how dense the mist, gray-ghast the sand
how gnash’d that hellmouth rocky strand
                    Enfang we the Norns bescyle!
Let Midgard tremble, let Christian flee
let foes be dashed upon the scree
let keen across the lochs their plea:
                    “Rule us, ye Kings of the Isles!”

Six hundred leap from karves afoam
six hundred charge onto the holm
six hundred reap amuck the loam
six hundred cleave into the gloam
                    Ingrieve we the Norns bescyle!
Across the moor blood-rivers wend
wine-dark with woad and Pictish end
tonight their weak-kneed witan bend
                    to name us Kings of the Isles

Now fly our colors and blow the horn
let feast the crows on them life-lorn
this fight hard-won by men oath-sworn
one hundred by five hundred mourned
                    Arrive we the Norns bescyle!
But what awaits us in the nether?
bind we bonds that Skuld should sever?
dream we fools to rule forever?
                    forever as Kings of the Isles

Churl Sullivan is a writer of no repute from St. Louis, Missouri, for whom a nominal association with boorish, intractable yokels is a great badge of honor. He’s been published nowhere, as a harlot has better odds at heaven than he at literary legitimacy; and until such time as this is no longer the truth, he’ll be napping in his pithos. You can find him at @Churl_Sullivan, but you probably shouldn’t.