ll. 239b-257

The lads have landed in Denmark, and the watchfella is like “who da fuck are these bais?”
Again, apologies for the lack of images. My internet is a bit gammy (and I’m also lazy).

Old English:

Ic hwile wæs 
endesæta, ægwearde heold, 
þe on land Dena laðra nænig 
mid scipherge sceðþan ne meahte. 
No her cuðlicor cuman ongunnon 
lindhæbbende; ne ge leafnesword 
guðfremmendra gearwe ne wisson, 
maga gemedu. Næfre ic maran geseah 
eorla ofer eorþan ðonne is eower sum, 
secg on searwum; nis þæt seldguma, 
wæpnum geweorðad, næfne him his wlite leoge, 
ænlic ansyn. Nu ic eower sceal 
frumcyn witan, ær ge fyr heonan , 
leassceaweras, on land Dena 
furþur feran. Nu ge feorbuend, 
mereliðende, minne gehyrað 
anfealdne geþoht: Ofost is selest 
to gecyðanne hwanan eowre cyme syndon. 

Translation:

I’ve been the lookout here for God feckin’ knows how long now at this stage, I’m here making sure no feckin’ gurriers in their ships come and attack the Danish coast. And never before have I seen the likes of this, shield-holders coming here like they own the gaff, not bothering their arses to learn the warriors’ password, or to even check if the lads had agreed to ye being here.
Not in my life have I seen a bigger feen than you lad here, no finer man in armour to be found. This lad here is no mere hall retainer bigged up with some swords and shit, like, unless I’m mistaken by his appearance – class, like.
Now look, I’ll hav to find out what sort of stock ye are from at all, before ye go further into the Danish lands – sure ye could be pure spying bastards for all I know. So, now lads, ye far-off seafaring feens, what’s the craic here, like? And best be quick about telling me where in the fuck ye bais are from”