Three kings rode out on the road to Hell,
And ravens flew on the gale.
The night wind rang like an iron bell
And hissed with sleet and hail.
Three kings rode out where the night wind runs,
And onto death's highway:
The King of the Britons, the King of the Huns,
And the King of Norroway.
And the King of the Britons was crowned with gold
And rode a stallion white.
“Oh, all men gang when they are told,
But I go not in fright.
A goodly king, who loved this fold,
And guarded them with the rod,
With stakes and gallows, against themselves,
Will surely go to God.”
And the King of the Huns was capped with steel,
And rode a stallion red.
“Oh, truly proud my fathers feel
Of me who crowned my head
Halfway across a world in pain,
Which mightily I did win;
And I go home to my fathers fane,
And not to the evil djinn.”
And the King of Norroway was helmed with wings,
And rode a stallion gray.
“Oh, fiercely glad my heart now sings;
Odin guests me today.
I died in bed, aye but I hung
Full many a screaming thrall
On Odin's tree. With runes on tongue,
I gang now to his hall.”
Three kings rode down to the depths of Hell,
And the bloody-breasted hound
Howled as they rode where black rivers fell,
Icy beneath the ground,
Three kings a final judgment won
From the high Gods lips that day:
The Devil took the Briton, the djinni took the Hun,
And Hell took Norroway!
