’Twas all in the holy Shrove-tide week
we met with the Birchleg horde;
Earl Knut was their captain—the swords with loud tongue
in the suit for the throne made award.
They say of a truth that since Sverre’s days
was never so hot a fight;
red-sprent, like warriors’ winding-sheets,
grew the upland that erst lay white.
They took to their heels did the Birchenlegs,
flinging from them both buckler and bill there;