In autumn’s mist by Stångåns flow, where blood would dye the stream below. A kingdom split, a kin betrayed, the bridge ran red; the price they paid. Karl, the Duke, stood fierce and proud, against his nephew's foreign shroud. Two banners flew, one faith, one crown, a war-torn land, where peace broke down. Oh, Stångebro, where shadows fell, where tales of swords and sorrow swell. A victory born of guile and mist, where brothers fought in fate’s hard twist. A bitter clash of faith and kin, where neither side would truly win. Sigismund came with sword in hand, from Poland’s shore to claim the land. The war drums beat, with banners raised, The pikes advanced through battle haze. The cannons roared, the soldiers cried, by Stångå bridge the warriors died. where crimson spread on earth and stone the nation’s fate was overthrown. Oh, Stångebro, where shadows fell, where tales of swords and sorrow swell. A victory born of guile and mist, where brothers fought in fate’s hard twist. A bitter clash of faith and kin, where neither side would truly win. And when the clash had stilled its roar, a fate took shape unseen before. The blood court's call, a silent dread, where noble heads lay cold and dead. The Bloodbath, with its butcher’s block, the grim Duke an unshaken rock. Great men condemned to face the sword, for loyalty sworn, for spoken word. The crowd stood silent, cold and still, as steel struck flesh by royal will. The tale remains of war’s harsh cost, where kinsmen fought and glory lost. And now the bells ring through the years, across those ancient fields of tears. A song that speaks of blood and pain, the Swedish crown through crimson gained.
