Swa sceal geong guma gode gewyrcean,
fromum feohgiftum on fæder bearme,
þæt hine on ylde eft gewunigen
wilgesiþas, þonne wig cume,
leode gelæsten; lofdædum sceal
in mægþa gehwære man geþeon.
Him ða Scyld gewat to gescæphwile
felahror feran on frean wære.
Hi hyne þa ætbæron to brimes faroðe,
swæse gesiþas, swa he selfa bæd,
þenden wordum weold wine Scyldinga;
leof landfruma lange ahte.
þær æt hyðe stod hringedstefna,
isig ond utfus, æþelinges fær.
And bloody right that a young lad do a bit of good, and pay his way while under his auld fella’s roof, so that when he himself is an auld fella, all the lads will stick by him when a fight comes ’round, and the people too will have his back. Sound deeds will earn you respect with anyone.
From them then did Scyld go – sure, ’twas his time. And off now he went to our lord himself. All the lads brought him down then to the ocean’s waves, cause, well, that’s what he himself had asked back when he still had the talk on him.
Pure sound lad, that lord of the Scyldings, who held fast for a long time. There at the docks stood this class boat with a roundy prow on it, all icy and ready for the waves, this boat that belonged to the prince.