"The battle lost" our battle-cry;
The foe once more advances:
As some fierce whirlwind cleaves the sky,
We skirr, through blood and slaughter, by,
Amidst a night of lances!
On, lion-like, grim Ulrick sweeps—
Bright shines his hero-glaive—
Her chase before him Fury keeps,
Far-heard behind him, Anguish weeps,
And round him—is the Grave!