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!"