In fifty keels and five
Rush'd over the pirate swarm,
Hornets out of the Northern hive,
Hawks on the wings of the storm;
Blood upon talons and beak,
Blood from their helms to their heels,
Blood on the hand and blood on the cheek!--
In five and fifty keels.

O fiere and terrible horde
That shout about Orry the Dane,
Clanging the shield and clashing the sword
To the roar of the storm-tost main!
And hard on the shore they drive,
Ploughing through shingle and sand,--
And high and dry those fifty and five
Are haul'd in line upon land.

And ho! for the torch straightway,
In honour of Odin and Thor,--
And the blazing night is as bright as the day,
As a gift to the gods of war;
For down to the melting sand,
And over each flaring mast,
Those fifty and five they have burnt as they stand
To the tune of the surf and the blast!

A ruthless, desperate crowd
They trample the shingle at Lhane,
And hungry for slaughter they clamour aloud
For the Viking, for Orry the Dane!
And swift has he flown at the foe,--
For the clustering clans are here,--
But light is the club and weak is the bow
To the Norseman sword and spear;

And woe to the patriot Manx,
The right overthrown by the wrong,--
For the sword hews hard at the staggering ranks,
And the spear drives deep and strong:
And Orry the Dane stands proud
King of the bloodstained field,
Lifted on high, by the shouldering crowd
On the batter'd boss of his shield.

Yet though such a man of blood,
So terrible, fierce, and fell,
King Orry the Dane had come hither for good,
And govern'd the clans right well;
Freedom and laws and right,
He sow'd the good seed all round,--
And built up high in the People's sight
Their famous Tynwald mound;

And elders twenty and four
He set for the House of Keys,
And all was order from shore to shore
In the fairest Isle of the Seas:
Though he came a Destroyer, I wist,
He remain'd as a Ruler to save,
And yonder he sleeps in the roadside kist
They call King Orry's grave.