Our blond bond with the striking Vikings

Erik the Viking was just seventeen; He thought of himself as a man. He’d heard about Britain, though he’d never been, All the stories he’d got from his Gran.

Erik the Viking, a handsome young lad, Blond hair reached halfway down his back. ’Twas said that his features he’d got from his Dad, Some had doubts though; his Dad’s hair was black.

The young chap was restless and wanted to roam, Sail to Britain, perhaps make a mint. Both his Mum and his Gran were dead keen he left home And said: ‘Bring back some dosh ’cos we’re skint’.

So off Erik sailed across the North Sea, It took ages, he began to despair, Then on the horizon ‘twas land, oh what glee, But salt water had ruined his hair.

A Scots lassie found him, her name it was Grace, Poor Erik felt terribly sick, Asking ‘Am I in Britain?’ and ‘What is this place?’ She said ‘You and your boat’s south of Wick’.

Grace took Erik home ’cos she fancied a Dane But her Dad said ‘Get rid of this whinger. I dislike his blond locks, it’s more like a mane’. He was jealous, ’cos his hair was ginger.

He went to the bedroom, came back in his kilt, In his sporran his hand started to forage. ‘Get him oot of my hoose or blood will be spilt’. Grace’s Mum carried on stirring porridge.

‘He’s not at all Scottish, not part of our clan, Don’t like him one bit, ’cos he’s foreign’, Brave Erik thought he would stand up to the man ’Til the Dad pulled a dirk from his sporran.

Erik and Grace then fled back to the boat, Got her seated to keep the boat steady, They sailed due south, Grace liked being afloat. Shame they fled, ’cos the porridge was ready.

Grace waved a farewell to the place of her birth And they sailed at a neckbreaking speed, Staying close to the land and flashing past Perth, They pulled in at Berwick on Tweed.

Stocked with provisions they continued to flee, Passing Yorkshire and Norfolk they went. They thought they might settle at Clacton on Sea, But decided on Margate in Kent.

With a home now in Margate ’cos that was their wish Through the years had their heartaches and joys, Their livelihood came from the boat, catching fish. They produced seven children, all boys.

All seven grew up to be handsome young lads, Leaving home they went off on a spree. With flowing blond hair which was just like their Dad’s, Girls’ hearts melted from Bath to Dundee.

Now with centuries past in the mirror you see Your blond hair, is it just to your liking? If so my dear friend there’s a chance you could be A descendant of Erik the Viking.