ll. 164-188

Grendel has absolutely effed up the gaff, so now our poet takes some time to shit on the ways of the heathens.

Old English:

Swa fela fyrena feond mancynnes, 
atol angengea, oft gefremede, 
heardra hynða. Heorot eardode, 
sincfage sel sweartum nihtum; 
no he þone gifstol gretan moste, 
maþðum for metode, ne his myne wisse. 
þæt wæs wræc micel wine Scyldinga, 
modes brecða. Monig oft gesæt 
rice to rune; ræd eahtedon 
hwæt swiðferhðum selest wære 
wið færgryrum to gefremmanne. 
Hwilum hie geheton æt hærgtrafum 
wigweorþunga, wordum bædon 
þæt him gastbona geoce gefremede 
wið þeodþreaum. Swylc wæs þeaw hyra, 
hæþenra hyht; helle gemundon 
in modsefan, metod hie ne cuþon, 
dæda demend, ne wiston hie drihten god, 
ne hie huru heofena helm herian ne cuþon, 
wuldres waldend. Wa bið þæm ðe sceal 
þurh sliðne nið sawle bescufan 
in fyres fæþm, frofre ne wenan, 
wihte gewendan; wel bið þæm þe mot 
æfter deaðdæge drihten secean 
ond to fæder fæþmum freoðo wilnian.

Translation:

So a load of mad crimes were committed by this feen who everyone hated, this pure weird loner of a lad – he absolutely mortified them, like. And he took over the fancy lookin’ gaff, Heorot, in those pitch black nights. But here lah, he wasn’t able to get close to the big chair at all, or all those treasures, because of the Lord (bless us and save us), who had no love at all for that pup.
And jesus, that was a fierce amount of suffering for that fine strappin’ lord of the Scyldings – his heart was feckin’ broke from it, y’know what I mean, like. Loads of these counsellor lads, they often sat about wondering and pondering away about what in the hell should some of the more bould fellas do about these mad attacks.
Sometimes now they’d even promise feckin’ sacrifices and the whole lot at these heathen temples (‘the fuck, like) and ask the Devil himself to give them an old hand with this absolute paain of a curse of theirs. But sure look, such was their custom, this heathen hope. Hell was there in their minds, and they hadn’t a clue of God, the poor crayturs – and I’ll say it now lads, Only God Can Judge Me – they didn’t know the Lord our God at all at all, and sure jesus, they didn’t even know to pray to heaven’s king, that Wielder of Pure Classness. And isn’t it it awful, those who feck their souls into the flames of the big fire, expecting not a bit of comfort or anything at all to change. And its well now so it is for those who can seek the Lord our God (sound lad) and ask for a bit of protection in Our Father’s lapeen.