A mournful horn sounds a deathly call
A lone ship sails back to the fjords
I know my father dines in Odin's hall
Feasting above with heroes of old
Borne from the ship and carried high
His face as white as the snow
Sword-wounds cleaned and dried
Four men bear his body.
His bearded face is calm and proud
His jaw is firm and eyes open wide
His warriors hold his body high still and cold.
Still and cold!
On his chest his ancient sword
Gleaming even under the clouds
Taken long ago from dragon's hoard.
Plundered from the ancient caves.


His sea-steed is pushed off from the sand
Flaming, into the salty brine.
The ravens circle overhead
Calling out their croaking cry.
The smoke coils up into the snowy clouds
Blowing back to our ancestral shores
Where I stand holding my fathers sword.
My ancient sword!
The ships once again prepare to sail
The men have stocked with weapons of war
Axes and shields, helms and spears
And me with my ancestral blade.
We will sail to the lands of our foes
Right to the place where my father fell
And for his death we'll make them pay,
Send triple our number down to Hell.
Gather steel and raise your head
Let forth your battle yell
And come my brothers, join us
On this warhellride!
Warhellride!