Kurshi

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!"