Den svarte Sot (Original English version)

The Black Sickness:

Lyrics: Atkin

A proud noble warrior and father am I
I tipped wine to the gods when they darkened the sky
Fearless in battle when many have died
The cause of my death would come from the inside

It began in my feet my fingers and hands
And the use of the parts that do make me a man

My eyes became yellowed as sun and the sand
My piss dark and ashen as dust of this land
My skin, so hardened it bears many scars
From enemies weapons from conquests afar

Lashed by a cruel wind ‘neath a cold northern star
Must I now watch helpless as it blackens like tar
From yellow to black from my brow to my feet
My blood it is blackened by fate’s cruel deceit

I’d known only victory never defeat
Now I’m rotting and broken like pieces of meat

A strange kind of jaundice survived by so few
I watch myself take on this unearthly hue
I’ve seen it before know what it can do
Know what kind of monster it turns you into

I have the black sickness a scourge of mankind
No cure waiting out there my kinfolk might find
Death lies before me, my life lies behind
The way of my ending has long been defined

Gods of the Underworld, hear now my call
Why take me by sickness? Not to enemies, fall
Have I not done your bidding? Now I’m struck by this pall
To die on my belly, like a serpent I crawl

The Valkyrie spurn me, won’t show me the way
O’er the bridge to Valhalla at the end of my days
For my death has no honour as I slowly decay
Not finished in battle, but in bed do I lay

Some call it the Svartsot; the brutal disease
That leaves warriors helpless to die on their knees
Not in glorious battles or cold Baltic seas
But withered and crippled, not wild nor free

They sing of the Svartsot, destroyer of men
They fear of the sickness from mountain to fen
Know not of its causes, nor who, and nor when
But you’ll know of it now, from this bard’s feather pen!