|
Ic
eom wunderlicu wiht, on gewin sceapen,
|
|
I
am a strange creature shaped for battle
|
|
|
frean minum leof, fægre
gegyrwed.
|
|
Coated in colors, dear to my lord.
|
|
|
Byrne
is min bleofag; swylce beorht seomað
|
|
Bright
thread lurks and swings in my mail,
|
|
|
wir ymb þone wælgim
þe me waldend geaf,
|
|
Cradles the death-gem, gift of a lord
|
|
|
se me widgalum wisað hwilum
|
5 |
Who grips and guides my body forward
|
5 |
|
sylfum to sace. Þonne
ic sinc wege
|
|
Through the wide rush of war. In the clear
|
|
|
þurh hlutterne dæg, hondweorc smiþa,
|
|
Court of day, I bear the glint of gold,
|
|
|
gold ofer geardas. Oft
ic gæstberend
|
|
Bright song of smiths. Often I slay
|
|
|
cwelle compwæpnum. Cyning
mec gyrweð
|
|
Soul-bearers with thrust and slash.
|
|
|
since ond seolfre ond mec on sele
weorþað;
|
10 |
Sometimes
the hall-king decks me in silver
|
10 |
|
ne wyrneð wordlofes, wisan
mæneð
|
|
Or garnet praise, raises my power
|
|
|
mine for mengo, þær
hy meodu drincað,
|
|
Where men drink mead, reigns my killing
|
|
|
healdeð mec on heaþore,
hwilum læteð eft
|
|
Or cuts me loose, heart-keen, swing-tired,
|
|
|
radwerigne on gerum sceacan,
|
|
Through the broad room of war. Sometimes I sing
|
|
|
orlegfromne. Oft ic oþrum
scod
|
15 |
Through the throat of a friend-the curse
|
15 |
|
frecne æt his freonde,
Fah
eom ic wide,
|
|
Of weapons.
No son will seek vengeance
|
|
|
wæpnum awyrged. Ic
me wenan ne þearf
|
|
On my slayer when battle-foes ring death.
|
|
|
þæt me bearn wræce
on bonan feore,
|
|
My
tribe will not count children of mine
|
|
|
gif me gromra hwylc guþe
genægeð;
|
|
Unless I lordless leave the guardian
|
|
|
ne weorþeð sio mægburg
gemicledu
|
20 |
Who gave me rings. My fate is strange:
|
20 |
|
eaforan minum þe ic æfter
woc,
|
|
If I follow my lord and wage war,
|
|
|
nymþe ic hlafordleas hweorfan
mote
|
|
Sure thrust of a prince's pleasure,
|
|
|
from þam healdende þe
me hringas geaf.
|
|
Then I must stroke in brideless play
|
|
|
Me bið forð witod, gif
ic frean hyre,
|
|
Without the hope of child-treasure.
|
|
|
guþe fremme, swa ic gien
dyde
|
25 |
I
am bound by an ancient craft to lose
|
25 |
|
minum þeodne on þonc,
þæt ic þolian sceal
|
|
That joy-so in sheer celibacy I enjoy
|
|
|
bearngestreona. Ic
wiþ bryde ne mot
|
|
The hoard of heroes. Wrapped with wire
|
|
|
hæmed habban, ac me þæs
hyhtplegan
|
|
Like a bright fool, I frustrate a woman;
|
|
|
geno wyrneð se mec geara on
|
|
Steal her joy, slake desire. She rants,
|
|
|
bende legde; forþon ic
brucan sceal
|
30 |
Rails, curses, claps hands, chants
|
30 |
|
on hagostealde hæleþa
gestreona.
|
|
Unholy incantations-bladed words
|
|
|
Oft
ic wirum dol wife abelge,
|
|
In a bloodless battle I cannot enjoy
|
|
|
wonie hyre willan; heo me wom
spreceð,
|
|
|
|
|
floceð hyre folmum, firenaþ
mec wordum,
|
|
|
|
|
ungod gæleð. Ic ne gyme þæs
|
35 |
|
|
|
compes * * *
|
|
|
|
iddle
18
