Only the weak believe,
that what they do in battle,
is who the are as men
Far in the north neath hills of stone
in caverns black there was a throne,
by flame encircled there the smoke
in coiling collumns rose to choke.
Slowly his shadow like a cloud
rode from the north and on the proud
that would not yield his vengance fell;
to d**h or thraldom under hell
With fire and sword his ruin red
and all that would not bow the head
like lightning fell the northern land
lay groaning neath his ghastly hand.