كلمات Kurshi

Don't blow, mother wind don't bend the dry fir while my brothers sail across the sea Tread, brothers, upon your swords standing on this shore thus we'll tread our enemies on the shore across From the castlemounds of Dzintare and Vartaja 600 men of Kursa have gathered on the seashore their spears and swords brightly glitter in the sun, some carry an oaken cudgel or a sharp axe, the banners of war are flapping in the tall masts of 20 ships, a long while has gone since their last pillage-sailing took place... The olden krive has waded in the water up tho his knees He is rising the axe soiled by the offering's blood to the sky The name of mighty Perkons loudly he calls and begs for his favour and defence in this fight. The horns are blown and men shove their ships in the waves, an old man starts the ancient song of war : "We are Kurshi - the men from the land of amber to the north now is leading our way; right as the Northmen plunder our shores to take revenge now we sail. For a long time they will remember our cudgels and pray for their God of cross : Oh, Lord, save us from the men of Kursha!"