Death was at the door, on this cold winter's night
Robbed of his life, it was written, as his fate caught up
Who shall lead us now, in an age that has run out
Lost our king, our sorrow is heavy, now his reign has ended
Did the shot come from his own ranks?
Three hundred years and nobody knows
Dead at the kingdom's edge, the dream turned to sand
Carried home by hand, back to Svealand
The march goes towards Sweden, no songs in our ranks
Carrying our king homeward, over mountain and over heath
How shall we then remember, was he a hero or not?
Folly or heroism, you must ask yourself
Did the shot come from his own ranks?
Three hundred years and nobody knows
Dead at the kingdom's edge, the dream turned to sand
Carried home by hand, back to Svealand
Will there finally be peace?
But we'll never be what we once were
Dead at the kingdom's edge, the dream turned to sand
Carried home by hand, back to Svealand
Dead at the kingdom's edge, the dream turned to sand
Carried home by hand, back to Svealand