1. The Wanderer
(From Riddle 20)
Ic eom wunderlicu wiht | on gewin sceapen, | I‘m a wonderful thing shaped for fighting, |
frean minūm leof | fægre gegyrwed. | dear to my lord, fairly adorned. |
[….] | ||
sylfum to sace. | þōnne ic sinc wege | into strife. Then I wear treasure |
þurh hlutterne dæg, | hondweorc smiþa, | through the shining day, handiwork of smiths, |
gold ofer geardas. | … | gold over tracts of earth. … |
since ond seolfre | … | with jewels and silver… |
(From The Wanderer)
Hwær cwom mearg? Hwær cwom mago? | Hwær cwom maþþumgyfa? | Where is the horse gone? Where the rider? Where the giver of treasure? |
Hwær cwom symbla gesetu? | Hwær sindon seledreamas? | Where are the seats at the feast? Where are the revels in the hall? |
Eala beorht bune! | Eala byrnwiga! | Alas for the bright cup! Alas for the mailed warrior! |
Eala þeodnes þrym! | Hu seo þrag gewat, | Alas for the splendour of the prince! How that time has passed away, |
genap under nihthelm, | swa heo no wære. | dark under the cover of night, as if it had never been! |
2. Of Fire and File
(From Riddle 71)
Ic eom rices æht, | reade bewæfed, | I am the property of a powerful man, clothed in red, |
stið ond steapwong. | Staþol wæs iu þa | Hard and steep-cheeked, my place was once |
wyrta wlitetorhtra; | nu eom wraþra laf, | That of bright plants; now I am the remnant of hostilities, |
fyres ond feole, | fæste genearwad, | Of fire and file, firmly confined, |
wire geweorþad. | Wepeð hwilum | Decorated with wires. Sometimes he weeps |
for minum gripe | se þe gold wigeð, | Because of my grasp, he who bears gold, |
þonne ic iþan sceal | earme lafe | When I must ravage the wretched survivors |
4. Lost Warriors
(From The Wanderer)
Stondeð nu on laste | leofre duguþe | Now there stands… in the trace of this beloved troop |
weal wundrum heah, | wyrmlicum fah. | a wall, wondrously high, wound round with serpents. |
Eorlas fornoman | asca þryþe, | The warriors taken by spear glory, |
wæpen wælgifru, | wyrd seo mære, | the slaughter-hungry weapons, that famous fate, |
ond þas stanhleoþu | stormas cnyssað, | and these rocky cliffs are beaten by storms |
hrið hreosende | hrusan bindeð, | falling frost fetters the earth, |
wintres woma, | þonne won cymeð, | warning of winter; then the darkness comes, |
nipeð nihtscua, | norþan onsendeð | night-shadows deepen, and from the north sent: |
hreo hæglfare | hæleþum on andan. | a rough hailstorm full of malice against men. |
6. The Marks of War-Blades
(From Riddle 5)
Ic eom anhaga | iserne wund | I am a lonely wanderer, wounded with iron, |
bille gebennad | beadoweorca sæd | smitten by war-blades, sated with strife, |
ecgum werig | oft ic wig seo | worn from the sword-edge. Often I see battle, |
frecne feohtan | frofre ne wene | fierce combat. I foresee no comfort, |
mec geoc cyme | guðgewinnes | no help will come for me into the heat of battle, |
ær ic mid ældum | eal forwurϸe | until among men I perish utterly; |
ac mec hnossiað | homera lafe | But I’m beaten by what hammers craft – |
heardecg heoroscearp | hondweorc smiþa | hard-edged; sword-sharp, the handiwork of smiths, |
bitað in burgum | ic abidan sceal | in towns among men. I am doomed to endure |
laþran gemotes | næfre læce cynn | the meeting of foes. Not even a leech |
onfolc stede | findan meahte | Where people foregather can I find for myself; |
þara þe mid wyrtum | wunde gehælde, | nor any who with herbs could heal my wounds… |
ac me ecga dolg | eacen weorðað | But the marks of war-blades double and deepen |
þurh deaðslege | dagum ond nihtum | from mortal blows… Both by day and by night. |
Related articles
- Hord Songs (thecreativediarist.com)
- Invitation to ‘Hord Songs’, Live performance & installation piece. (thecreativediarist.com)