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 castle mounds of Dzintare and Vārtāja
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 to his knees
He is raising the axe soiled by the offering's blood to the sky
The name of mighty Pērkons 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 Kursa!"