ll 217-239a

The lads arrive in Denmark. We are subjected to even more Old English words for sea.

And apologies, the images are not uploading at the moment. Deal with it.

Old English:

Gewat þa ofer wægholm, winde gefysed, 
flota famiheals fugle gelicost, 
oðþæt ymb antid oþres dogores 
wundenstefna gewaden hæfde 
þæt ða liðende land gesawon, 
brimclifu blican, beorgas steape, 
side sænæssas; þa wæs sund liden, 
eoletes æt ende. þanon up hraðe 
Wedera leode on wang stigon, 
sæwudu sældon syrcan hrysedon, 
guðgewædo, gode þancedon 
þæs þe him yþlade eaðe wurdon. 
þa of wealle geseah weard Scildinga, 
se þe holmclifu healdan scolde, 
beran ofer bolcan beorhte randas, 
fyrdsearu fuslicu; hine fyrwyt bræc 
modgehygdum, hwæt þa men wæron. 
Gewat him þa to waroðe wicge ridan 
þegn Hroðgares, þrymmum cwehte 
mægenwudu mundum, meþelwordum frægn: 
Hwæt syndon ge searohæbbendra, 
byrnum werede, þe þus brontne ceol 
ofer lagustræte lædan cwomon, 
hider ofer holmas?


Off now over the sea the boat went, bate on by the wind, all foamy at its neck, flying like some sort of bird or something, if ye get me, until the next day, right on time, that roundy old boat had come so far that the lads could spot a bit of land and all – these big shiny cliffs, slopes that were steep out, and some big fuck-off headlands.
So that was the sea crossed and the journey at its end. Quick out those Weder-lads lepped onto the shore after the boat was all tied up, shook the old mail shirts, the war clothes, like. They gave God a big thumbs up ’cause the journey was a piece of piss.
Then, during one of his old lamps* from the wall, the Scylding lookout, this lad who had to mind the sea-cliffs, spotted all those class shields and battle-gear being carried over the gangway**. He was pure curious to find out who the hell these feens were, and so he bate on down to the shore riding a horse, so this thane of Hrothgar’s did, shaking his spear like mad in his hands an started on the bais:
“Here la, who’re ye warrior-lookin’ fellas with all yer mail coats and this massive yoke of a ship that ye’ve crossed over the sea-road on to here, like?”

*to lamp can mean to look, or to bate the head off someone. Here, it’s the former.
**Fun(?) fact: “gangway” is from Old English gangweg (gang – going, weg – way), and probably sounded pretty feckin’ similar to its PDE equivalent.

ll. 190-216

It has been a few weeks since my last post, as I was busy gattin’ and moving into a new gaff. Anyway, here we first meet the leading man himself, and are subjected to numerous terms for ships.


Old English:

Swa ða mælceare maga Healfdenes 
singala seað, ne mihte snotor hæleð 
wean onwendan; wæs þæt gewin to swyð, 
laþ ond longsum, þe on ða leode becom, 
nydwracu niþgrim, nihtbealwa mæst. 
þæt fram ham gefrægn Higelaces þegn, 
god mid Geatum, Grendles dæda; 
se wæs moncynnes mægenes strengest 
on þæm dæge þysses lifes, 
æþele ond eacen. Het him yðlidan 
godne gegyrwan, cwæð, hu guðcyning 
ofer swanrade secean wolde, 
mærne þeoden, þa him wæs manna þearf. 
ðone siðfæt him snotere ceorlas 
lythwon logon, þeah he him leof wære; 
hwetton higerofne, hæl sceawedon. 
Hæfde se goda Geata leoda 
cempan gecorone þara þe he cenoste 
findan mihte; XVna sum 
sundwudu sohte; secg wisade, 
lagucræftig mon, landgemyrcu. 
Fyrst forð gewat. Flota wæs on yðum, 
bat under beorge. Beornas gearwe 
on stefn stigon; streamas wundon, 
sund wið sande; secgas bæron 
on bearm nacan beorhte frætwe, 
guðsearo geatolic; guman ut scufon, 
weras on wilsið, wudu bundenne. 


So Healfdane’s son had an awful bloody time of it, and he was constantly mee-awing*; that pure smart feen couldn’t stop thinking of this shitshow for how much of an absolute balls it was, full of hate, and so bloody long – a dire situation, these pure mad nightly attacks that all the locals found themselves in.
At home, one of Hygelac’s lads, fine Geatish man now, heard about this Grendel fella and what he was at. Out of everyone, he was the mightiest of ’em, pure strong fucker like, unlike anything you’ve seen in this life anyway, and from powerful good stock too so he was. He ordered that a boat – a good one now, alright – be prepared, said he wanted to have a word with this feen-king across the pond, pure legend of a man, to whom a time of shite craic was being dealt.
Any of the smart lads, they made very little fuss, dear and all as he was to them. If anything, they urged on this mad feen and kept watch for omens. This absolute lad so, he had some Geatish bais – fightin’ men – picked out, the keenest he could find, One of fifteen he was, and he sought out the boat, the strappin’ sea-crafty lad led the way to the edge of the land, down the docks. ‘Twas time to get going – the ship was on the waves, the boat under the cliffs. The lads anyway, rearin’ to go so they were, lepped onto the prow. The currents churned, the sea plámásing the sand. The lads hauled up a rake of class weapons and some unreal battle-gear, up onto the deck. The bais then gave the boat an old shove and off they set in the wooden yoke of a ship.

*”mee-awwing” is something I’ve heard my mother say a lot, or she would call people a “big mee-aww”, basically meaning a big whinger. I have been informed that it is from the Irish mí ádh, “bad luck”. There ya to now

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.

Most of 133v
top of 134r

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.


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.

ll. 134b-163

132v (bottom)
to of 133v

Old English:

Næs hit lengra fyrst,
ac ymb ane niht eft gefremede 
morðbeala mare ond no mearn fore, 
fæhðe ond fyrene; wæs to fæst on þam. 
þa wæs eaðfynde þe him elles hwær 
gerumlicor ræste sohte, 
bed æfter burum, ða him gebeacnod wæs, 
gesægd soðlice sweotolan tacne 
healðegnes hete; heold hyne syðþan 
fyr ond fæstor se þæm feonde ætwand. 
Swa rixode ond wið rihte wan, 
ana wið eallum, oðþæt idel stod 
husa selest. Wæs seo hwil micel; 
XII wintra tid torn geþolode 
wine Scyldinga, weana gehwelcne, 
sidra sorga. Forðam [gesyne] wearð,
ylda bearnum, undyrne cuð, 
gyddum geomore, þætte Grendel wan 
hwile wið Hroþgar, heteniðas wæg, 
fyrene ond fæhðe fela missera, 
singale sæce, sibbe ne wolde 
wið manna hwone mægenes Deniga, 
feorhbealo feorran, fea þingian, 
ne þær nænig witena wenan þorfte 
beorhtre bote to banan folmum, 
ac se æglæca ehtende wæs, 
deorc deaþscua, duguþe ond geogoþe, 
seomade ond syrede, sinnihte heold 
mistige moras. men ne cunnon 
hwyder helrunan hwyrftum scriþað.


And it wasn’t much longer at all, but after just one night he killed some more dead, not a hint of remorse – he was stone mad for feud and crime. And by jesus, twasn’t hard to find someone who had their eye on a bed elsewhere, further away, a leaba* in some more private gaff, after that hall-feen’s hatred became so clear as bloody day it was that obvious. And these lads who avoided this mad feen stayed the absolute fuck away after that.
And so he ruled, fightin’ the law, one against all, until that banger of a gaff stood empty. It was a good while now, 12 feckin’ winters in fact, that the pure sound king of the Scyldings suffered grief and every sort of woe and fierce sorrow (awh lads, ’twas dreadful, like). And like, everyone, soon they all knew about it, and the sad stories became well-known, of this Grendel lad, who for a while now fought with Hrothgar (absolute bai), and of the hatred that was waged and of the crimes and feud that carried on for years and years – it was bloody constant like, this strife was. And there was no talking to him about making a pact with any of the Danish lads, or putting a stop to all this killing, he wouldn’t even settle for a bit of money, and the counsellors gave up on expecting any sort of compo from that gurrier’s hands, but that absolute feen**, pure dark thoughts in his head***, stalked auld and young fellas alike, skulked and plotted, holding those misty moors in a never-ending night. Nobody knows what circles these devilish lads move about in.

*leaba is Irish for “bed”, and probably one of the more common uses of Irish in everyday speech.
** “absolute feen” is what I have chosen to translate aglæca as – as a term that is used of Grendel, his mother, the dragon, Beowulf himself (with the dragon), Sigemund, and absolute lad Bede, the monstrous translations of this term in certain situations don’t reflect what I believe is the true meaning of the term, “formidable one” – see Sherman Kuhn for his study on this term, and also Elliot van Kirk Dobbie. See Middle English egleche, “brave, fearless” (Kurath and Kuhn)
*** this is the translation of deorc deaþscua – rather than translating as “dark death-shadow” I am taking the approach suggested by Joyce Hill that it is not a physical, spirit-like description of Grendel, but one that describes his state of mind, and his absence from God’s thoughts (no he … his [Metode] myne wise –he would never know his [God’s love]), and thus, in umbra mortis, or in the shadow of death. My translation is also influenced by Edwin Morgan’s rendition of this line as “dark with death’s shadow”, which doesn’t render him as a non-corporeal shadow thing.

ll. 115-134a


Old English:

Gewat ða neosian, syþðan niht becom,
hean huses, hu hit Hringdene 
æfter beorþege gebun hæfdon. 
Fand þa ðær inne æþelinga gedriht 
swefan æfter symble; sorge ne cuðon, 
wonsceaft wera. Wiht unhælo, 
grim ond grædig, gearo sona wæs, 
reoc ond reþe, ond on ræste genam 
þritig þegna, þanon eft gewat 
huðe hremig to ham faran, 
mid þære wælfylle wica neosan. 
ða wæs on uhtan mid ærdæge 
Grendles guðcræft gumum undyrne; 
þa wæs æfter wiste wop up ahafen, 
micel morgensweg. Mære þeoden, 
æþeling ærgod, unbliðe sæt, 
þolode ðryðswyð, þegnsorge dreah, 
syðþan hie þæs laðan last sceawedon, 
wergan gastes; wæs þæt gewin to strang, 
lað ond longsum.


He went then once night came, so our boyo did, to the Big House*, to see that the Ring-Danes had settled down after a few bags of cans. He then found them inside there, the gang of bais, bate after the feast, not a feckin’ clue of sorrow or of the misery of men. That bould fella, grim and greedy, he was ready, steaming** and fierce, and scooped up thirty (THIRTY) feens from their rest. Then off home he went, pure delighted with his plunder, back to seek his own gaff, his arms filled with the dead.
It wasn’t until the crack of dawn in the morning that Grendel’s mad war skills were revealed to the lads. And after the feast a clamour was raised, a great wailing in the morning. Their mighty king, pure legend of princes, sat there, absolutely gutted with sadness, mortified at the loss of thanes, after they had an old sconce at the footprints; that struggle was just too much, hateful and bloody long too.

*Capitalised Big House is a reference to the landed estates of the Anglo-Irish and English, confiscated off the Irish by the British Crown – a wee bit of a postcolonial Heaneyesque take for you there.
**reoc – this term is quite perplexing. It appears only once in OE, and very little is written about it, dictionaries merely stating it means “fierce, savage”. This appears to be from Etmuller’s definition of Latin saevus, “cruel, wild, fierce”, but he does also define it as effervescens, “effervescent”, relating no doubt to the OE verb reocan, from Proto-Germanic *reukan which means “to smoke, to steam”, and from which we get PDE “to reek”, “to stink up the gaff”. Etmuller clearly thought that the adjective was related to the verb, but why is this link stated nowhere else? While Grendel is a fierce bastard, and indeed reþe says as much, why does reoc mean the same? Is it not possible that it means something that reflects the verb? If anyone can send me in the direction of how reoc‘s definition of “fierce, savage” came to be, then please do! Anyway, rant over, I have chosen to play on this confusion and translate it as “steaming”, which is Cork (and probably wider) slang for shitfaced drunk, because why not.

ll. 86-114

Go on the bais, we have finally got to the part of the poem where Absolute Lad Grendel is introduced.

The bottom of 130v
Tippy top of 132v

Old English:

ða se ellengæst earfoðlice 
þrage geþolode, se þe in þystrum bad, 
þæt he dogora gehwam dream gehyrde 
hludne in healle; þær wæs hearpan sweg, 
swutol sang scopes. Sægde se þe cuþe 
frumsceaft fira feorran reccan, 
cwæð þæt se ælmihtiga eorðan worhte, 
wlitebeorhtne wang, swa wæter bebugeð, 
gesette sigehreþig sunnan ond monan 
leoman to leohte landbuendum 
ond gefrætwade foldan sceatas 
leomum ond leafum, lif eac gesceop 
cynna gehwylcum þara ðe cwice hwyrfaþ. 
Swa ða drihtguman dreamum lifdon 
eadiglice, oððæt an ongan 
fyrene fremman feond on helle. 
Wæs se grimma gæst Grendel haten, 
mære mearcstapa, se þe moras heold, 
fen ond fæsten; fifelcynnes eard 
wonsæli wer weardode hwile, 
siþðan him scyppend forscrifen hæfde 
in Caines cynne. þone cwealm gewræc 
ece drihten, þæs þe he Abel slog; 
ne gefeah he þære fæhðe, ac he hine feor forwræc, 
metod for þy mane, mancynne fram. 
þanon untydras ealle onwocon, 
eotenas ond ylfe ond orcneas, 
swylce gigantas, þa wið gode wunnon 
lange þrage; he him ðæs lean forgeald. 


Then some mad feen went through a time of shite craic, he who hung out in the pitch black, and who every feckin’ night heard the absolute racket from the huge gaff party in the hall. There was the harp’s noising and the poet lad’s singing as clear as anything. This lad, he had a way with words about him, and told that story from ages ago about the creation of mankind, y’know, and he said that the almighty God himself made the earth, this fuckin’ gorgeous gaff surrounded by water, and he placed – class man that he is – the big lights of the sun and moon, lamps for all the bais down below, and he adorned all the earth’s corners with branches and leaves, and gave life to all kinds of yokes that move about.

And so the people had a grand old time for a bit anyway, until this fella now, the absolute horrors in his mind*, began to commit some less than pleasant crimes. This pure mad feen was called Grendel, a notorious outsider – he ruled the marshes and the swampy land [if this isn’t Cork then I dunno where it is**]. This miserable boyo hung out for a while in thee home of the langers, ever since the Lord himself had had it up to here with these bloody relatives of Cain – the Eternal Lord (for ever and ever Amen) was getting back at him for murder after he gave Abel one too many clatters across the head.

And y’know, he didn’t enjoy one bit that feud, but God drove that pup away from mankind for that crime. And from him came about all sorts of gurriers; gombeens and loolas and absolute gowls, and also those big lads who, for a long time, would be startin’ on God – but he paid them a hefty price for that, y’know what I mean.

*feond on helle – Just gonna say here now, feond is not “fiend”, tis “enemy”, alright. I have decided to get around the awkward on helle by using one of the DOE’s definitions of “state of torment or misery on earth”, one of the fif onlicnessa her on worulde, “one of the five hells on earth” according to the Vercelli Homilies. Another interesting theory is that of Sophus Bugge, who contended that helle should be emended to healle, to mean “hall”.
**Cork city is built on a swamp – we are now claiming Grendel as our homeboy.

ll. 53-85

Chapter four of our absolute langer, Boyo-wulf, is here! I want to preface this post by saying a huge thank you for all the support I have been getting with this translation – the positive feedback really makes it feel worthwhile. Ye’re a bunch of ledges!

Lower part of 130r
Upper part of 130v

Old English:

ða wæs on burgum Beowulf Scyldinga, 
leof leodcyning, longe þrage 
folcum gefræge fæder ellor hwearf, 
aldor of earde, oþþæt him eft onwoc 
heah Healfdene; heold þenden lifde, 
gamol ond guðreouw, glæde Scyldingas. 
ðæm feower bearn forð gerimed 
in worold wocun, weoroda ræswan, 
Heorogar ond Hroðgar ond Halga til; 
hyrde ic þæt wæs Onelan cwen, 
Heaðoscilfingas healsgebedda. 
þa wæs Hroðgare heresped gyfen, 
wiges weorðmynd, þæt him his winemagas 
georne hyrdon, oðð þæt seo geogoð geweox, 
magodriht micel. Him on mod bearn 
þæt healreced hatan wolde, 
medoærn micel, men gewyrcean 
þonne yldo bearn æfre gefrunon, 
ond þær on innan eall gedælan 
geongum ond ealdum, swylc him god sealde, 
buton folcscare ond feorum gumena. 
ða ic wide gefrægn weorc gebannan 
manigre mægþe geond þisne middangeard, 
folcstede frætwan. Him on fyrste gelomp, 
ædre mid yldum, þæt hit wearð ealgearo, 
healærna mæst; scop him Heort naman 
se þe his wordes geweald wide hæfde. 
He beot ne aleh, beagas dælde, 
sinc æt symle. Sele hlifade, 
heah ond horngeap, heaðowylma bad, 
laðan liges; ne wæs hit lenge þa gen 
þæt se ecghete aþumsweorum, 
æfter wælniðe wæcnan scolde.


Then it was up to the Scylding Beowulf (again, different fella), who the people were pure mad about and for a long time he was celebrated by the people – his father, that fine man (god rest his soul), had passed on – until to him then was born good old Healfdane; and then he was in charge of the Scyldings as long as he lived, absolutely ancient and mad in battle. And he, that leader of armies, had four babógs; Heorogar, Hrothgar, and Halga the Classss, and I’ve heard that […]* was Onela’s old doll, the Battle-Scylfing’s bed-fellow.

Hrothgar was given victory in war, he was pure class at it, like, so that all the lads gladly took his word and they grew from a bunch of young fellas into a mighty troop of absolute bais. And then it came to him, he’d get the men to throw up a hall, this mead-gaff, greater than all the children of men had ever even heard of, and there then inside it he would give to both the young and the old that which God himself (lord bless us and save us) had given him – that is, everything but the people’s land and the lives of men.

And I’ve heard from all over the place now that work was given to a load of feens across the land to do up that gaff. And sure it wasn’t long at all before it was ready, the most unreal of hall buildings. He named it Heorot, he whose word was law. And I’m tellin’ ya, he never forgot a promise, that lad; he dealt out rings and treasures at the feasts. The hall was huge, like, and bloody wide too; But it awaited fierce flames and the scutter of battle – and by God, it wasn’t long at all at all when the sword-hate of the son-in-law and the father-in-law** should come about, after a deadly hatred be woken.

*It’s unclear what’s going on in the MS here – the scribe wrote hyrde ic þæt elan cwen (you can see this about half way down the image of 130r), but it is generally assumed that there is text missing here, and that it should be rendered hyrde ic þæt [… was On]elan cwen. There have been suggestions of Yrse or Ursula, after comparisons with Norse sources. Kiernan suggests Hyrde ic þæt ides wæs æþelan cwen, “I heard that the woman was a glorious one’s queen”.

**the term used in the MS is aþum swerian, but this is mostly amended to aþumsweoran – probably a dvanda, or linguistic compound that includes multiple words which make a new word – aþum (son-in-law) and sweor (father-in-law). Kiernan appears to favour keeping the term as is and translating as “swear with oaths”. But we do know that it s referring to Hrothgar and Ingeld. Liuzza translates as “sword in-laws” which seems a nice middle-ground. I decided to go with the former, it being somewhat more straightforward, and it meant I got to use the definitive article, which is often used in Cork in front of these kind of familial terms, or at least in my family anyway.

ll. 34-52

Bottom half of 129v
Top of 130r

Old English:

Aledon þa leofne þeoden, 
beaga bryttan, on bearm scipes, 
mærne be mæste. þær wæs madma fela 
of feorwegum, frætwa, gelæded; 
ne hyrde ic cymlicor ceol gegyrwan 
hildewæpnum ond heaðowædum, 
billum ond byrnum; him on bearme læg 
madma mænigo, þa him mid scoldon 
on flodes æht feor gewitan. 
Nalæs hi hine læssan lacum teodan, 
þeodgestreonum, þon þa dydon 
þe hine æt frumsceafte forð onsendon 
ænne ofer yðe umborwesende. 
þa gyt hie him asetton segen geldenne 
heah ofer heafod, leton holm beran, 
geafon on garsecg; him wæs geomor sefa, 
murnende mod. Men ne cunnon 
secgan to soðe, selerædende, 
hæleð under heofenum, hwa þæm hlæste onfeng. 


They then laid down that fine man, pure generous as he was with the rings, down in the bosom of the ship, that legend by the mast. There was trinkets and treasures galore from way over the road brought there.

Never in my life had I heard the likes of it, this class ship, absolutely bate full of battle-weapons and battle-armour, swords and coats of mail. On his chest lay a rakeload of treasure, which would sail off with him in the flood’s grip.

And sure didn’t they go all out with the treasures, those locals, and no bloody less than those at the start,who cast him off into the waves when the poor craytur was just a small fella. And now they set a gold banner way up over his capeen, and let the ocean have him, gave him up to the Spear-Man* himself, their spirits full of misery and their hearts awailin’. There’s not nobody** that knows, from the bais in the halls to the feens under the heavens, who received that load.

*”Spear-man” from OE gar-secg – this appears to be a kenning for the ocean, and may represent some sort of sea deity (perhaps like Neptune or Poseidon), although the term is quite problematic for reasons concerning mythopoeia. Earl Anderson suggests it should be gares-ecg, syncopated to garsecg, and thus “edge of the promontory”. I may add, a certain Frederick Candelaria suggests “narwhal” (as mentioned in Klaeber 4), but I can’t find his article. But, honestly, I could get down with this.

**Just like in Old English, the double negative doesn’t really exist in Irish slang.

ll. 20-33


Bottom of 129r
Top half of 129v

Old English:

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.