Hasten, O sea-steed, over the swan-road,
Foamy-necked ship, o'er the froth of the sea,
For Hengest has called us from Gotland and Frisia,
To Vortigern's country, his army to be.

        We'll take our pay there in sweeter than silver;
        We'll take our plunder in richer than gold,
        For Hengest has promised land for the fighting,
        Land for the sons of the Saxons to hold!

Hasten, O FYRDMEN, down to the river,
Dragon-ships come on the in-flowing tide.
The linden-wood shield and the old spear of ash-wood
Are needed again by the cold waterside.

        Draw up the shield-wall, O shoulder companions.
        Latter, whenever our story it told,
        They'll say that we died holding what we call dearest:
        Lands that the sons of the Saxons will hold.

Hasten, O HUSCARLS, north to the Dane-law-
Harald Hardrada's come over the sea!
His long-ships he'd laden with bearsarks from Norway
To claim Cnute's crown and our master to be.

        Bitter he'll find there the bite of our spear-points;
        Hard-hitting Northmen too strong to die old.
        We'll grant him six feet-plus as much as he's taller-
        Of land that the sons of the Saxons will hold!

Make haste, son of GODWIN, southward from Stamford,
Triumph is sweet, and your men have fought hard,
But William the Bastard has landed at Pevensey,
Burning the land you have promised to guard.

        Draw up the spears on the hill-top at Hastings,
        Fight 'til the sun drops, and evening grows cold,
        And die with the last of your Saxons around you,
        Holding the land you were given to hold.