|
Min
heafod is homere geþuren,
|
|
My head is struck by a forging hammer,
|
|
|
searopila wund, sworfen feole.
|
|
Sheared close by a shaping blade,
|
|
|
Oft
ic begine þæt me ongean sticað,
|
|
Honed smooth by a fierce file.
|
|
|
þonne ic hnitan sceal, hringum
gyrded,
|
|
Sometimes I swallow my tempered foe,
|
|
|
hearde wið heardum, hindan þyrel--
|
5 |
When bound by rings, I heave from behind,
|
5 |
|
forð ascufan þæt mines
frean
|
|
Thrust a long limb through a hard hole,
|
|
|
mod W freoþað middelnihtum.
|
|
Catch hard the keeper of the heart's pleasure,
|
|
|
Hwilum
ic under bæc bregde nebbe,
|
|
Twist with my tongue and turn back
|
|
|
hyrde þæs hordes, þonne
min hlaford wile
|
|
The midnight guardian of my lord's treasure
|
|
|
lafe þicgan þara þe
he of life het
|
10 |
When the conquering warrior comes to hold
|
10 |
|
wælcræfte awrecan willum
sinum.
|
|
The gift of slaughter, the joy of gold.
|
|
iddle
87
