And plied his foemen aft and fore,
Loud crying 'midst the tempest's roar:
"Now, now's the tide!"
"Fly each, who knows a refuge path,
For who can Juul, when hot with wrath,
Abide!"

O North sea, Weasel's {50} flashes rent
Thy vapours dun.
Down to thy bosom heroes went,
For with those flashes death was blent;
From the fight rose a yell which rent
Thy vapours dun.
From Denmark lighteneth Tordenskiold,--
"Yield, yield to heaven's favourite bold,
And run."

Thou Danish path to fame and might,
Dark-rolling main!
Receive thy friend, who holds as light
The perils of the stormy fight,
Who braves like thee the tempest's might,
Dark-rolling main!
Bear me through battle, song and sport,
Until the grave, my final port,
I gain!