An Historic Poem

Published in Bulletin No. 3, October 1982, from CSAC President R.M. "Mac" Sinclair. This poem, passed on by the CSAC founders, is about the Massacre of the Scots at Kringen on 26 August 1612. Below is the English translation.

During 1982, Dr. Eddie and Roselma Sinclair attended a meeting in Ireland and spent some time with an associate who is Minister of Education for Denmark. He provided a copy of an ancient (written in 1700) poem of the Danes, "Sinklarvisen" by Edv. Storm.

SINCLAIR by Edward Storm

Herr Sinclair sailed o'er the salty sea
To Norway his course was directed;
In the mists of Gudbrands his grave now lies
With a bloody head it is known he died.

Herr Sinclair sailed over the waves so blue
To fight for Swedish money;
Help me God! You must save me
To fight on the plains of the Norsemen.

The moon is shining by night, so white,
The waves so gently rolling;
Out of the sea a mermaid rose,
Foretelling Herr Sinclair's bad fortune.

Turn back, turn back, you Scottish man!
Your life which is good and lovely,
If Norway you reach, I predict forsooth,
You will never return to your homeland.

Evil is your song, doomed you are!
All I can see is disaster,
For once you are in our power
You'll be beaten to pieces and shattered.

He sailed by sea for three long days,
With all his hired crew;
On morning four Norway he sights
And pointed to the view.

By Romsdale coast he-----land
Declaring himself an e----
Fourteen hundred men h-----ads
All who are ready for battle.

They raped and burned wherever they went,
All peoples' rights they simply scorned,
And weak old men were not touching, at all
As they laughed at the widows sobbing ca--.

The child was killed as the mother died,
Even a baby's smile didn't stop them;
As news of the massacre o'er the land spread
The heart of the country shuddered with dread.

Smoke signals were lighted to pass on the word
From farm to farm the news was heard;
The sons of the valley responded with fervour,
As Herr Sinclair discovered much to his horror.

Alas the King's army was far-away fighting,
The farmers alone must do all the defending;
Damned be to those, the traitorous cowards,
Their blood we seek at the loss of ours.

The farmers of Vaage, Lessoe and Lom,
Searing sharp axes on shoulders so strong
Met in great numbers in Bredeboigd town,
To launch an attack on the Scots before dawn.

Under the mountain there is a small lane,
Which everyone knows as Kringen by name;
By the river there which is fast and swollen,
The enemy we'll fight until they are fallen.

Gone from the walls are all of the rifles,
The old huntsmen practise daily their sightings,
The vision of hunting lifts up their hearts,
And makes them impatient to get their targets.

The very first shot cuts down Herr Sinclair,
He gives out a cry as he gasps to get air;
All the Scotsmen cried out when their leader fell;
God save us from this awful hell.

Onward farmers! Onward Norwegian men!
Strike now, strike again until the end!
Then every Scotman longed for home,
No longer a victor but leaderless and alone.

Soon bodies were everywhere lying,
The ravens appeared to feast on the dying;
While blood of the young --- flowed everywhere freely
The Scottish girls sobs -----long and appealing.

No living went home
Who could carry the story,
Of the dangers met that day
In high mountains so lofty.

Now on the spot a memorial stands,
A reminder to people in all other lands;
That when enemies seek our land to conquer,
Every Norwegian will fight for his country's honour.



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