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!"