We buried our gold in an oaken cask

To hide from the pillaging Dane;

Then fled in hopes of recovering it;

We never saw treasure again.

We trudged our way southwards for five whole days,

The Danes never far from behind;

They were close enough we could hear the screams

Of those captured that they would blind.

We sought sanctuary in Eoferwic

Through Northumbrian moor and moss

And found in a church a Christian priest

Blood-eagled, alive on his cross.

The city no longer held surety,

We heard from those fleeing who spoke;

But words were not needed as distantly

Ascended the stench and the smoke.

The Vikings had sailed up the Ouse that day

By crossing the seas of the East;

The townsfolk and thegns who'd resisted them

Were dining in Wael at Tiw's feast.

The old gods it seems have abandoned us;

The new God does not hear us pray;

The Northmen are raiding in Mercia

And Wessex is too far away.

But even the Kingdom of Wessex quakes;

It’s rumoured King Alfred is dead,

Or hides in the levels like a shy girl,

Or with fever lies on his bed.

We Saxons are fated to flee before

The scourge of the Dane’s burning brand;

There is little hope for the Kingdoms here

Unless we are one Anglaland.