No drum-beat nerved them to the fight;
They heard no bugle blare:
No sword or lance-point glittered bright,
No standard floated there;
Only the streaming Northern Light
Shook, high in air.

They had no hope of victory
Against their unseen foe;
They had no hope of fame to be
That they might live to know:
Nothing before them could they see
But frost and floe.

They died; in death was not foregone
The old high English pride:
They died: till many a year was done
They slumbered side by side,
To show the folk who follow on
How brave men died.