So we’ve gotten through the Watchman, and he thinks all the bais are class, and they have all plonked their gear against the wall of Heorot, only to be questioned again, by another lad who also thinks they are class.
Old English:
þa ðær wlonc hæleð
oretmecgas æfter æþelum frægn:
Hwanon ferigeað ge fætte scyldas,
græge syrcan ond grimhelmas,
heresceafta heap? Ic eom Hroðgares
ar ond ombiht. Ne seah ic elþeodige
þus manige men modiglicran.
Wen ic þæt ge for wlenco, nalles for wræcsiðum,
ac for higeþrymmum Hroðgar sohton.
Him þa ellenrof andswarode,
wlanc Wedera leod, word æfter spræc,
heard under helme: We synt Higelaces
beodgeneatas; Beowulf is min nama.
Wille ic asecgan sunu Healfdenes,
mærum þeodne, min ærende,
aldre þinum, gif he us geunnan wile
þæt we hine swa godne gretan moton.
Wulfgar maþelode þæt wæs Wendla leod;
wæs his modsefa manegum gecyðed,
wig ond wisdom: Ic þæs wine Deniga,
frean Scildinga, frinan wille,
beaga bryttan, swa þu bena eart,
þeoden mærne, ymb þinne sið,
ond þe þa ondsware ædre gecyðan
ðe me se goda agifan þenceð.
Hwearf þa hrædlice þær Hroðgar sæt
eald ond anhar mid his eorla gedriht;
eode ellenrof, þæt he for eaxlum gestod
Deniga frean; cuþe he duguðe þeaw.
Wulfgar maðelode to his winedrihtne:
Her syndon geferede, feorran cumene
ofer geofenes begang Geata leode;
þone yldestan oretmecgas
Beowulf nemnað. Hy benan synt
þæt hie, þeoden min, wið þe moton
wordum wrixlan. No ðu him wearne geteoh
ðinra gegncwida, glædman Hroðgar.
Hy on wiggetawum wyrðe þinceað
eorla geæhtlan; huru se aldor deah,
se þæm heaðorincum hider wisade.
Translation:
Then some proud fella asked all the lads about their backgrounds:
“Stall the ball there lads, who the hell do ye think ye are now with all these fancy shields and metal shirts and feckin’ savage* helmets on ye and a big rake of spears? I’m Hrothgar’s messenger and officer, y’know, and never in the life of me have I seen so many foreign lads as brave out as yerselves, and so many of ye, Chrisht! I’d say now that ye lads are here for some prideful business, I doubt ye’ve been fecked out if yeer own gaffs. Nah, ’tis bravery that’s brought ye looking for Hrothgar, I’d say so myself anyway.”
The brave man himself answered back, pure proud head on him, the leader of the Geats, and let out some words, big husky voice under his helmet:
“We’re some of Hygelac’s clan, there la. Beowulf is my own name. I’d like to have an old chat there with good old Healfdane’s son, the mighty man in charge, your leader, about why we are here, if he’d be good enough now that he might greet us.”
Wulfgar spoke, he was a Vendel man himself so he was, and he has some name for himself this lad did, for fightin’ and having a good head on his shoulders too:
“Look sure, as you wish, I’ll pass on the message to the lord of the Scyldings, friend of the Danes, and pure sound man when it comes to ring-giving. I’ll ask him there about your travels and I’ll be back to you, give me a few minutes there, and I’ll let you know what himself think, alright”
He shimmied around then to where Hrothgar, the hairy auld fella, sat, in the middle of all his own lads. He went up so that he was stood in front of the Danish king. He knew the customs well so he did, and Wulfgar, to his pure sound lord, was all like:
“Some Geatish lads have shown up there, the sea after bringing them some mighty distance. The fella in charge of these lads is a a so-called Beowulf. They’re after a bit of s banter with you, my lord. I know you’re a sound lad Hrothgar, so don’t be refusing them but give them a response, g’wan sure. Looking at the gear on then, you can tell there’s no lack of money there, if you know what I mean*, and they seem worthy of respect, and especially the lad in charge who has led them all here.”
Boyo-wulf: A Corkonian Translation of an Old English Poem 