Lock the door, Gefndene, lion of Winterfell,
Lock the door, Gefndene, Pukels comes on.
The Lething are flying, their widows are crying,
Homesteads are burning and the Witch is gone!
Lock the door, Gefydene, high on the weather gleam,
See how the Pukel blades they gleam on the sky.
Forth goes the Geat array, boldly their banners fly,
Fierce is the foray and far is the cry!
Scowled the broad sun o’er the links o’ Gefynsdale,
Red as the beacon-fires tipped he the wold,
Many a bold martial eye mirrored that morning sky,
Never more oped on its orbit of gold.
See how they wane the proud files o’ the water mere.
Pukels! Ah woe tae your hopes o’ the day.
Hear the wide welkin rend while the Geat shouts ascend –
“Lyttlemen o’ Gefyndene! Lyttlemen for aye!’