In battle-field to spread around the dread of Norway's name.
Lone Mona's sea-girt isle he dares with spear and flashing sword,
Usurping regal rule and right by power of pirate horde;
Yet vengeance drear, and dark desert of direst actions, crave
A bloody death, a justice clear, and dark usurper's grave.
On Erin's lovely land he falls—awarded darksome doom,
When, ruffian-like, he dared profane the saintly Olave's tomb:
He leaves his conquests, kingdoms, crowns, and all of earthly state,
To sleep in loneliness, and fill his dark predicted fate.
Kirk Michael, Isle of Man. A B.C.