God, tis been a while hasn’t it. Got a bit distracted there, but sure look!
Back at it.
Old English
Beowulf maþelode, bearn Ecgþeowes:
Hwæt. þu worn fela, wine min Unferð,
beore druncen ymb Brecan spræce,
sægdest from his siðe. Soð ic talige,
þæt ic merestrengo maran ahte,
earfeþo on yþum, ðonne ænig oþer man.
Wit þæt gecwædon cnihtwesende
ond gebeotedon wæron begen þa git
on geogoðfeore þæt wit on garsecg ut
aldrum neðdon, ond þæt geæfndon swa.
Hæfdon swurd nacod, þa wit on sund reon,
heard on handa; wit unc wið hronfixas
werian þohton. No he wiht fram me
flodyþum feor fleotan meahte,
hraþor on holme; no ic fram him wolde.
ða wit ætsomne on sæ wæron
fif nihta fyrst, oþþæt unc flod todraf,
wado weallende, wedera cealdost,
nipende niht, ond norþanwind
heaðogrim ondhwearf; hreo wæron yþa.
Wæs merefixa mod onhrered;
þær me wið laðum licsyrce min,
heard, hondlocen, helpe gefremede,
beadohrægl broden on breostum læg
golde gegyrwed. Me to grunde teah
fah feondscaða, fæste hæfde
grim on grape; hwæþre me gyfeþe wearð
þæt ic aglæcan orde geræhte,
hildebille; heaþoræs fornam
mihtig meredeor þurh mine hand.
Translation:
Beowulf, Ecgtheow’s young fella was like ‘c’mere to me, you’ve had a lot to say about Brece and his exploits, langers-drunk on gatt as you are. And yeah, sure, it’s true that I claim to be some pure talent in the sea when it comes to those bollockses of waves, more ocean-strength than any other feen. The two of us young lads we had agreed and promised that we’d head out on the sea, risking our lives like a bunch of loolahs, and sure that’s what we did. We had naked swords, so we did, held fast in our hands, we meant to defend ourselves from these big whale-fish yokes (don’t even ask, bai). He wasn’t able to get far from or faster than me with these big fuck-off waves, and I didn’t care at all to leave him either. Then we were there, the two of us, I’d say around 5 night so it was, until the currents drove us apart, the eater wellin’ up, and jesus the weather was bitter like, with the night darkening now, and the biting north wind, turned on us, and these pure rough waves on us.
And then something came over these slippery fuckers. My mail-coat, hard and linked by hand (class workmanship, like) helped me with these bowsies, the woven fightin’ jacket all nice and goldie, lay on me chest. One of the feckers pulled me down to the arse of the sea, a fierce grip on it. But I was fuckin’ lucky now I was, that I was able to get this absolute feen* with a blade, a war-sword; our flurry of fighting sent that boyo packing through my hand.
*absolute feen here is a translation of aglæcan
Boyo-wulf: A Corkonian Translation of an Old English Poem 