The Ruin In A Modern English Translation Poem by Michael Burch

THE RUIN in a Modern English Translation

'The Ruin' is one of the great poems of English antiquity. This modern English translation of one of the very best Old English/Anglo-Saxon poems is followed by footnotes, a summary and analysis, a discussion of the theme, and the translator's comments.


THE RUIN
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

well-hewn was this wall-stone, till Wyrdes wrecked it
and the Colossus sagged inward...

broad battlements broken;
the Builders' work battered;

the high ramparts toppled;
tall towers collapsed;

the great roof-beams shattered;
gates groaning, agape...

mortar mottled and marred by scarring hoar-frosts...
the Giants' dauntless strongholds decaying with age...

shattered, the shieldwalls,
the turrets in tatters...

where now are those mighty Masons, those Wielders and Wrights,
those Samson-like Stonesmiths?

the grasp of the earth, the firm grip of the ground
holds fast those fearless Fathers
men might have forgotten
except that this slow-rotting siege-wall still stands
after countless generations!

for always this edifice, grey-lichened, blood-stained,
stands facing fierce storms with their wild-whipping winds
because those master Builders bound its wall-base together
so cunningly with iron!

it outlasted mighty kings and their claims!

how high rose those regal rooftops!
how kingly their castle-keeps!
how homely their homesteads!
how boisterous their bath-houses and their merry mead-halls!
how heavenward flew their high-flung pinnacles!
how tremendous the tumult of those famous War-Wagers...
till mighty Fate overturned it all, and with it, them.

then the wide walls fell;
then the bulwarks were broken;
then the dark days of disease descended...

as death swept the battlements of brave Brawlers;
as their palaces became waste places;
as ruin rained down on their grand Acropolis;
as their great cities and castles collapsed
while those who might have rebuilt them lay gelded in the ground:
those marvelous Men, those mighty master Builders!

therefore these once-decorous courts court decay;
therefore these once-lofty gates gape open;
therefore these roofs' curved arches lie stripped of their shingles;
therefore these streets have sunk into ruin and corroded rubble...

when in times past light-hearted Titans flushed with wine
strode strutting in gleaming armor, adorned with splendid ladies' favors,
through this brilliant city of the audacious famous Builders
to compete for bright treasure: gold, silver, amber, gemstones.

here the cobblestoned courts clattered;
here the streams gushed forth their abundant waters;
here the baths steamed, hot at their fiery hearts;
here this wondrous wall embraced it all, with its broad bosom.

... that was spacious...



Footnotes and Translator's Comments
by Michael R. Burch

Summary

'The Ruin' is an ancient Anglo-Saxon poem. It appears in the Exeter Book, which has been dated to around 960-990 AD. However, the poem may be older than the manuscript, since many ancient poems were passed down orally for generations before being written down. The poem is an elegy or lament for the works of 'mighty men' of the past that have fallen into disrepair and ruins. Ironically, the poem itself was found in a state of ruin. There are holes in the vellum upon which it was written. It appears that a brand or poker was laid to rest on the venerable book. It is believed the Exeter Book was also used as a cutting board and beer mat. Indeed, we are lucky to have as much of the poem as we do.

Author

The author is an unknown Anglo-Saxon scop (poet) .

Genre

'The Ruin' may be classified as an elegy, eulogy, dirge and/or lament, depending on how one interprets it.

Theme

The poem's theme is one common to Anglo-Saxon poetry and literature: that man and his works cannot escape the hands of wyrde (fate) , time and death. Thus men can only face the inevitable with courage, resolve, fortitude and resignation. Having visited Bath myself, I can easily understand how the scop who wrote the poem felt, and why, if I am interpreting the poem correctly.

Plot

The plot of 'The Ruin' seems rather simple and straightforward: Things fall apart. The author of the poem blames Fate for the destruction he sees. The builders are described as 'giants.'

Techniques

'The Ruin' is an alliterative poem; it uses alliteration rather than meter and rhyme to 'create a flow' of words. This was typical of Anglo-Saxon poetry.

History

When the Romans pulled their legions out of Britain around 400 BC, primarily because they faced increasing threats at home, they left behind a number of immense stone works, including Hadrian's Wall, various roads and bridges, and cities like Bath. Bath, known to the Romans as Aquae Sulis, is the only English city fed by hot springs, so it seems likely that the city in question is Bath. Another theory is that the poem refers to Hadrian's Wall and the baths mentioned were heated artificially. The Saxons, who replaced the Romans as rulers of most of Britain, used stone only for churches and their churches were small. So it seems safe to say that the ruins in question were created by Roman builders.

Interpretation

My personal interpretation of the poem is that the poet is simultaneously impressed by the magnificence of the works he is viewing, and discouraged that even the works of the mighty men of the past have fallen to ruin.

Analysis of Characters and References

There are no characters, per se, only an anonymous speaker describing the ruins and the men he imagines to have built things that have survived so long despite battles and the elements.

Related Poems

Other Anglo-Saxon/Old English poems: The Ruin, Wulf and Eadwacer, The Wife's Lament, Deor's Lament, Caedmon's Hymn, Bede's Death Song, The Seafarer, Anglo-Saxon Riddles and Kennings

Keywords/Tags: Anglo-Saxon, Old English, England, translation, elegy, lament, lamentation, Bath, Roman, giant, giants, medieval, builders, ruin, ruins, wall, walls, fate



Bede's Death Song
ancient Old English/Anglo-Saxon lyric poem, circa 735 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Facing Death, that inescapable journey,
who can be wiser than he
who reflects, while breath yet remains,
on whether his life brought others happiness, or pains,
since his soul may yet win delight's or night's way
after his death-day.

Bede's 'Death Song' is one of the best poems of the fledgling English language now known as Old English or Anglo-Saxon English. Written circa 735 AD, the poem may have been composed by Bede on his death-bed. It is the most-copied Old English poem, with 45 extant versions. The poem is also known as 'Bede's Lament.' It was glossed by a 13th century scribe known as the Tremulous Hand of Worchester because of the 'shaky' nature of his handwriting.



Deor's Lament

(Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem circa the 10th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Weland endured the agony of exile:
an indomitable smith wracked by grief.
He suffered countless sorrows;
indeed, such sorrows were his bosom companions
in that frozen island dungeon
where Nithad fettered him:
so many strong-but-supple sinew-bands
binding the better man.
That passed away; this also may.

Beadohild mourned her brothers' deaths,
bemoaning also her own sad state
once she discovered herself with child.
She knew nothing good could ever come of it.
That passed away; this also may.

We have heard the Geat's moans for Matilda,
his lovely lady, waxed limitless,
that his sorrowful love for her
robbed him of regretless sleep.
That passed away; this also may.

For thirty winters Theodric ruled
the Mæring stronghold with an iron hand;
many acknowledged his mastery and moaned.
That passed away; this also may.

We have heard too of Ermanaric's wolfish ways,
of how he cruelly ruled the Goths' realms.
That was a grim king! Many a warrior sat,
full of cares and maladies of the mind,
wishing constantly that his crown might be overthrown.
That passed away; this also may.

If a man sits long enough, sorrowful and anxious,
bereft of joy, his mind constantly darkening,
soon it seems to him that his troubles are limitless.
Then he must consider that the wise Lord
often moves through the earth
granting some men honor, glory and fame,
but others only shame and hardship.
This I can say for myself:
that for awhile I was the Heodeninga's scop,
dear to my lord. My name was Deor.
For many winters I held a fine office,
faithfully serving a just king. But now Heorrenda
a man skilful in songs, has received the estate
the protector of warriors had promised me.
That passed away; this also may.



This is the oldest extant poem in the English language:

Cædmon's Hymn
(Anglo-Saxon/Old English lyric circa 658-680 AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now let us honour      heaven-kingdom's Guardian,
the might of the Architect      and his mind-plans,
the work of the Glory-Father.      First he, the Eternal Lord,
established      the foundation of wonders.
Then he, the Primeval Poet,       created heaven as a roof
for the sons of men,       Holy Creator,
Maker of mankind.      Then he, the eternal Lord,
afterwards made men middle-earth:       Master almighty!

'Cædmon's Hymn' was composed sometime between 658 and 680 AD and may be the oldest extant poem in the English language. According to the Venerable Bede (673-735) , Cædmon was an illiterate herdsman who was given the gift of poetic composition by an angel.



'The Wife's Lament' or 'The Wife's Complaint' is an Old English (Anglo-Saxon) poem found in the Exeter Book which is generally considered to be an elegy in the manner of the German frauenlied, or 'woman's song.' The Exeter Book has been dated to 960-990 AD, but of course the poem may have been written earlier.

The Wife's Lament
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I draw these words from deep wells of my grief,
care-worn, unutterably sad.
I can recount woes I've borne since birth,
present and past, never more than now.
I have won, from my exile-paths, only pain.

First, my lord forsook his folk, left,
crossed the seas' tumult, far from our people.
Since then, I've known
wrenching dawn-griefs, dark mournings... oh where,
where can he be?

Then I, too, left—a lonely, lordless refugee,
full of unaccountable desires!
But the man's kinsmen schemed secretly
to estrange us, divide us, keep us apart,
across earth's wide kingdom, and my heart broke.

Then my lord spoke:
'Take up residence here.'
I had few friends in this unknown, cheerless
region, none close.
Christ, I felt lost!

Then I thought I had found a well-matched man—
one meant for me,
but unfortunately he
was ill-starred and blind, with a devious mind,
full of murderous intentions, plotting some crime!

Before God we
vowed never to part, not till kingdom come, never!
But now that's all changed, forever—
our friendship done, severed.
I must hear, far and near, contempt for my husband.

So other men bade me, 'Go, live in the grove,
beneath the great oaks, in an earth-cave, alone.'
In this ancient cave-dwelling I am lost and oppressed—
the valleys are dark, the hills immense,
and this cruel-briared enclosure—an arid abode!

The injustice assails me—my lord's absence!
On earth there are lovers who share the same bed
while I pass through life dead in this dark abscess
where I wilt, summer days unable to rest
or forget the sorrows of my life's hard lot.

A young woman must always be
stern, hard-of-heart, unmoved,
opposing breast-cares and her heartaches' legions.
She must appear cheerful
even in a tumult of grief.

Like a criminal exiled to a far-off land,
moaning beneath insurmountable cliffs,
my weary-minded love, drenched by wild storms
and caught in the clutches of anguish,
is reminded constantly of our former happiness.

Woe be it to them who abide in longing.



'The Husband's Lament' also known as 'The Husband's Message' is an Old English (i.e. Anglo-Saxon) poem from the Exeter Book, the oldest extant English poetry anthology. 'The Husband's Lament' may or may not be a reply to 'The Wife's Lament, ' another poem in the same collection.

The Husband's Message or The Husband's Lament
anonymous Old English poem, circa 960-990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

See, I unseal myself for your eyes only!
I sprang from a seed to a sapling,
waxed great in a wood,
                           was given knowledge,
was ordered across saltstreams in ships
where I stiffened my spine, standing tall,
till, entering the halls of heroes,
                   I honored my manly Lord.

Now I stand here on this ship's deck,
an emissary ordered to inform you
of the love my Lord feels for you.
I have no fear forecasting his heart steadfast,
his honor bright, his word true.

He who bade me come carved this letter
and entreats you to recall, clad in your finery,
what you promised each other many years before,
mindful of his treasure-laden promises.

He reminds you how, in those distant days,
witty words were pledged by you both
in the mead-halls and homesteads:
how he would be Lord of the lands
you would inhabit together
while forging a lasting love.
 
Alas, a vendetta drove him far from his feuding tribe,
but now he instructs me to gladly give you notice
that when you hear the returning cuckoo's cry
cascading down warming coastal cliffs,
come over the sea! Let no man hinder your course.

He earnestly urges you: Out! To sea!
Away to the sea, when the circling gulls
hover over the ship that conveys you to him!

Board the ship that you meet there:
sail away seaward to seek your husband,
over the seagulls' range,
                          over the paths of foam.
For over the water, he awaits you.

He cannot conceive, he told me,
how any keener joy could comfort his heart,
nor any greater happiness gladden his soul,
than that a generous God should grant you both
to exchange rings, then give gifts to trusty liege-men,
golden armbands inlaid with gems to faithful followers.

The lands are his, his estates among strangers,
his new abode fair and his followers true,
all hardy heroes, since hence he was driven,
shoved off in his ship from these shore in distress,
steered straightway over the saltstreams, sped over the ocean,
a wave-tossed wanderer winging away.

But now the man has overcome his woes,
outpitted his perils, lives in plenty, lacks no luxury,
has a hoard and horses and friends in the mead-halls.

All the wealth of the earth's great earls
now belongs to my Lord...
                             He only lacks you.

He would have everything within an earl's having,
if only my Lady will come home to him now,
if only she will do as she swore and honor her vow.



Are these the oldest rhyming poems in the English language? Reginald of Durham recorded four Anglo-Saxon/Old English verses of Saint Godric's: they are the oldest songs in English for which the original musical settings survive.

Led By Christ and Mary
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

By Christ and Saint Mary I was so graciously led
that the earth never felt my bare foot's tread!

In the second poem, Godric puns on his name: godes riche means "God's kingdom" and sounds like "God is rich"...

A Cry to Mary
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I.
Saintë Marië Virginë,
Mother of Jesus Christ the Nazarenë,
Welcome, shield and help thin Godric,
Fly him off to God's kingdom rich!

II.
Saintë Marië, Christ's bower,
Virgin among Maidens, Motherhood's flower,
Blot out my sin, fix where I'm flawed,
Elevate me to Bliss with God!

Godric also wrote a prayer to St. Nicholas:

Prayer to St. Nicholas
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Saint Nicholas, beloved of God,
Build us a house that's bright and fair;
Watch over us from birth to bier,
Then, Saint Nicholas, bring us safely there!



'The Rhyming Poem' also known as 'The Riming Poem' and 'The Rhymed Poem' is perhaps the oldest English rhyming poem. It was included in the Exeter Book, which has been dated to circa 960-990 AD.

The Rhymed Poem aka The Rhyming Poem and The Riming Poem
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

He who granted me life created this sun
and graciously provided its radiant engine.
I was gladdened with glees, bathed in bright hues,
deluged with joy's blossoms, sunshine-infused.

Men admired me, feted me with banquet-courses;
we rejoiced in the good life. Gaily bedecked horses
carried me swiftly across plains on joyful rides,
delighting me with their long limbs' thunderous strides.
That world was quickened by earth's fruits and their flavors!
I cantered under pleasant skies, attended by troops of advisers.
Guests came and went, amusing me with their chatter
as I listened with delight to their witty palaver.

Well-appointed ships glided by in the distance;
when I sailed myself, I was never without guidance.
I was of the highest rank; I lacked for nothing in the hall;
nor did I lack for brave companions; warriors, all,
we strode through castle halls weighed down with gold
won from our service to thanes. We were proud men, and bold.
Wise men praised me; I was omnipotent in battle;
Fate smiled on and protected me; foes fled before me like cattle.
Thus I lived with joy indwelling; faithful retainers surrounded me;
I possessed vast estates; I commanded all my eyes could see;
the earth lay subdued before me; I sat on a princely throne;
the words I sang were charmed; old friendships did not wane...

Those were years rich in gifts and the sounds of happy harp-strings,
when a lasting peace dammed shut the rivers' sorrowings.
My servants were keen, their harps resonant;
their songs pealed, the sound loud but pleasant;
the music they made melodious, a continual delight;
the castle hall trembled and towered bright.
Courage increased, wealth waxed with my talent;
I gave wise counsel to great lords and enriched the valiant.

My spirit enlarged; my heart rejoiced;
good faith flourished; glory abounded; abundance increased.
I was lavishly supplied with gold; bright gems were circulated...
Till treasure led to treachery and the bonds of friendship constricted.

I was bold in my bright array, noble in my equipage,
my joy princely, my home a happy hermitage.
I protected and led my people;
for many years my life among them was regal;
I was devoted to them and they to me.

But now my heart is troubled, fearful of the fates I see;
disaster seems unavoidable. Someone dear departs in flight by night
who once before was bold. His soul has lost its light.
A secret disease in full growth blooms within his breast,
spreads in different directions. Hostility blossoms in his chest,
in his mind. Bottomless grief assaults the mind's nature
and when penned in, erupts in rupture,
burns eagerly for calamity, runs bitterly about.

The weary man suffers, begins a journey into doubt;
his pain is ceaseless; pain increases his sorrows, destroys his bliss;
his glory ceases; he loses his happiness;
he loses his craft; he no longer burns with desires.
Thus joys here perish, lordships expire;
men lose faith and descend into vice;
infirm faith degenerates into evil's curse;
faith feebly abandons its high seat and every hour grows worse.

So now the world changes; Fate leaves men lame;
Death pursues hatred and brings men to shame.
The happy clan perishes; the spear rends the marrow;
the evildoer brawls and poisons the arrow;
sorrow devours the city; old age castrates courage;
misery flourishes; wrath desecrates the peerage;
the abyss of sin widens; the treacherous path snakes;
resentment burrows, digs in, wrinkles, engraves;
artificial beauty grows foul;
the summer heat cools;
earthly wealth fails;
enmity rages, cruel, bold;
the might of the world ages, courage grows cold.
Fate wove itself for me and my sentence was given:
that I should dig a grave and seek that grim cavern
men cannot avoid when death comes, arrow-swift,
to seize their lives in his inevitable grasp.
Now night comes at last,
and the way stand clear
for Death to dispossesses me of my my abode here.

When my corpse lies interred and the worms eat my limbs,
whom will Death delight then, with his dark feast and hymns?
Let men's bones become one,
and then finally, none,
till there's nothing left here of the evil ones.
But men of good faith will not be destroyed;
the good man will rise, far beyond the Void,
who chastened himself, more often than not,
to avoid bitter sins and that final black Blot.
The good man has hope of a far better end
and remembers the promise of Heaven,
where he'll experience the mercies of God for his saints,

freed from all sins, dark and depraved,
defended from vices, gloriously saved,
where, happy at last before their cheerful Lord,
men may rejoice in his love forevermore.



A Proverb from Winfred's Time
anonymous Old English poem, circa 757-786
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

1.
The procrastinator puts off purpose,
never initiates anything marvelous,
never succeeds, and dies alone.

2.
The late-deed-doer delays glory-striving,
never indulges daring dreams,
never succeeds, and dies alone.

3.
Often the deed-dodger avoids ventures,
never succeeds, and dies alone.

Winfrid or Wynfrith is better known as Saint Boniface (c.675-754) . The poem might better be titled 'A Proverb Against Procrastination from Winfred's Time.' This may be the second-oldest English poem, after 'Caedmon's Hymn.'



Franks Casket Runes
anonymous Old English poems, circa 700
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The fish flooded the shore-cliffs;
the sea-king wept when he swam onto the shingle:
whale's bone.

Fisc flōd āhōf on firgenberig.
Wearþ gāsric grorn þǣr hē on grēot geswam.
Hranes bān.

Romulus and Remus, twin brothers weaned in Rome
by a she-wolf, far from their native land.

Rōmwalus and Rēomwalus, twēgen gebrōðera:
fēdde hīe wylf in Rōmeceastre, ēðle unnēah.



'The Leiden Riddle' is an Old English translation of Aldhelm's Latin riddle Lorica ('Corselet') .

The Leiden Riddle
anonymous Old English riddle poem, circa 700
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The dank earth birthed me from her icy womb.
I know I was not fashioned from woolen fleeces;
nor was I skillfully spun from skeins;
I have neither warp nor weft;
no thread thrums through me in the thrashing loom;
nor do whirring shuttles rattle me;
nor does the weaver's rod assail me;
nor did silkworms spin me like skillfull fates
into curious golden embroidery.
And yet heroes still call me an excellent coat.
Nor do I fear the dread arrows' flights,
however eagerly they leap from their quivers.

Solution: a coat of mail.



If you see a busker singing for tips, you are seeing someone carrying on an Anglo-Saxon tradition that goes back to the days of Beowulf...

He sits with his harp at his thane's feet,
Earning his hire, his rewards of rings,
Sweeping the strings with his skillful nail;
Hall-thanes smile at the sweet song he sings.
—'Fortunes of Men' loose translation by Michael R. Burch



The Seafarer (anonymous Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 990 AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I.

Mæg ic be me sylfum  This is my self's
soðgied wrecan,            true song,
siþas secgan,                 my sea-lay's-saga—
hu ic geswincdagum    of how I endured
earfoðhwile                 life's hardships,
oft þrowade,                 wrenching anguish,
bitre breostceare         bitter breast-cares
gebiden hæbbe, [1a]    ... and still do!

gecunnad in ceole                  Tested at the keel
cearselda fela, [1b]                 of many a care-hold,
atol yþa gewealc,                    rocked by wild waves'
þær mec oft bigeat                 relentless poundings
nearo nihtwaco                      each anxious night-watch,   
æt nacan stefnan,                    soaked at the stern
þonne he be clifum cnossað.  when tossed close to cliffs!

Calde geþrungen     Ice-enmassed
wæron mine fet,       my fettered feet
forste gebunden      became frost-bound
caldum clommum,   cold clumps!

þær þa ceare seofedun  There cares seethed
hat ymb heortan;            hot in my heart;
hungor innan slat           hunger's pangs pierced
merewerges mod.          my sea-weary soul!

Þæt se mon ne wat  How can land-locked men understand,
þe him on foldan     for whom Fortune
fægrost limpeð,        smiles more favorably?

hu ic earmcearig  How I, care-wracked and wretched,
iscealdne sæ  borne on the ice-cold sea,
winter wunade                     weathered winter's
wræccan lastum,                  exile-ways,
winemægum bidroren, [2a]   bereft of wine-brothers,
bihongen hrimgicelum; [3a]  my beard hung with icicles,
hægl scurum fleag.               my body hail-pelted!

þær ic ne gehyrde   How I heard nothing
butan hlimman sæ,   but the sea's savage roars,
iscaldne wæg.          its icy-cold rages.

Hwilum ylfete song       Sometimes the swan's song
dyde ic me to gomene,   gave me pleasure—
ganotes hleoþor             the gannet's cries;
ond huilpan sweg          the curlew's clamor
fore hleahtor wera,        rather than men's laughter;
mæw singende              the seagull's shrieks
fore medodrince.          better than mead-drinking.

Stormas þær stanclifu beotan,   Storms slammed the stone-cliffs;
þær him stearn oncwæð,           there the tern answered
isigfeþera;                                 icy-feathered;
ful oft þæt earn bigeal,             ever the eagle screeched
urigfeþra;                                  sea-spray-slathered;
nænig hleomæga                      but no consoling kinsmen
feasceaftig ferð                       came to comfort
frefran meahte.                       my destitute soul.

Forþon him gelyfeð lyt,   Therefore he takes it lightly,  
se þe ah lifes wyn           the one who lives easy,
gebiden in burgum,          who abides happily in a burgh
bealosiþa hwon,               except for a few trifling pains,
wlonc ond wingal, [4a]    worldly, wine-flushed.

hu ic werig oft          While often I, bone-weary,
in brimlade                had to endure
bidan sceolde.           scalding sea-paths,
Nap nihtscua,             shadows of night deepening,
norþan sniwde,           fierce northern-snows,
hrim hrusan bond,      frost binding the ground,
hægl feol on eorþan,   hail flailing the earth,
corna caldast.[5a]     the coldest of crops.

II.

Forþon cnyssað nu      Indeed, how crushing,  
heortan geþohtas         my heart-cares,
þæt ic hean streamas,   that I should strive alone with
sealtyþa gelac              miserable salt streams' tumults
sylf cunnige—[5b]      while exploring
monað modes lust       my moody mind's lusts.

mæla gehwylce       While always my spirit
ferð to feran,            longs to fly forth,
þæt ic feor heonan  to find, far from here,
elþeodigra               a foreign residence
eard gesece—         beyond earth-desires.

Forþon nis þæs modwlonc          Therefore there is none so mood-proud,
mon ofer eorþan,                         not a man on earth,
ne his gifena þæs god, [6a]          none so generous with gifts,
ne in geoguþe to þæs hwæt,        none so bold in his youth,
ne in his dædum to þæs deor,      none so brave in his deeds,
ne him his dryhten to þæs hold,   none so beholden to his Master
þæt he a his sæfore                     that he in his seafaring
sorge næbbe,                               has never had to worry
to hwon hine Dryhten                about what his Lord
gedon wille.                                will lay upon him.

Ne biþ him to hearpan hyge  Not for him the harp-song
ne to hringþege                      nor ring-bringing
ne to wife wyn                       nor wife-winning
ne to worulde hyht                nor world-glory
ne ymbe owiht elles              nor anything else
nefne ymb yða gewealc;        except the numbing motion of the waves;
ac a hafað longunge              but he always has longings
se þe on lagu fundað.           who strives with the sea.

Bearwas blostmum nimað,   Woodlands blossom,
byrig fægriað,                       burgs grow fair,
wongas wlitigað,                  meadowlands flower,
woruld onetteð:                   the world hastens forward:
ealle þa gemoniað              all these things urge on
modes fusne[7a]                the doom-eager spirit—
sefan to siþe                       the one with a mind to travel,
þam þe swa þenceð           the one who imagines
on flodwegas                     venturing far afield
feor gewitan.                     over earth's sea-paths.

Swylce geac monað      Now the cuckoo warns
geomran reorde;            with her mournful voice;
singeð sumeres weard,   the guardian of summer sings,
sorge beodeð                 boding sorrows
bitter in breosthord.      bitter to the breast-hoard.

Þæt se beorn ne wat,      This the normal man knows not,
sefteadig secg,                the warrior lucky in worldly things,
hwæt þa sume dreogað  unaware of what others endure,
þe þa wræclastas           those who brave most extensively
widost lecgað.               earth's exile-paths.

Forþon nu min hyge hweorfeð  Now my spirit soars
ofer hreþerlocan,                        out of my breast,
min modsefa                              my mind floods
mid mereflode,                           amid the waterways
ofer hwæles eþel                       over the whale-path;
hweorfeð wide,                          it soars widely
eorþan sceatas—                      over all the earth's far reaches—
cymeð eft to me                       it comes back to me
gifre ond grædig;                       eager and unsated;
gielleð anfloga,                         the lone-flier screams,  
hweteð on hwælweg                urges the helpless heart
hreþer unwearnum                  onto the whale-way
ofer holma gelagu.                  over the sea-waves.

III.

Forþon me hatran sind  Deeper, hotter for me are
Dryhtnes dreamas         Lord-dreams
þonne þis deade lif        than this dead life
læne on londe.               loaned on land.

Ic gelyfe no              I do not believe
þæt him eorðwelan  that earth-riches
ece stondað.            will last forever.

Simle þreora sum        Invariably,
þinga gehwylce           three things
ær his tiddege              threaten a man's existence
to tweon weorþeð:       before his final hour:
adl oþþe yldo              either illness, old age
oþþe ecghete[8a]        or sword's-edge-malice 
fægum fromweardum  ripping out life
feorh oðþringeð.         from the doom-endangered.

Forþon biþ eorla gehwam  And so for each man
æftercweþendra                 the praise of the living,
lof lifgendra                       of those who mention him after life ends,
lastworda betst,                  remains the best epitaph;
þæt he gewyrce,                 such words he must earn
ær he on weg scyle,           before he departs...

fremum on foldan      Bravery in the world
wið feonda niþ,           against the enmity of fiends,
deorum dædum          daring deeds
deofle togeanes,         against devils,
þæt hine ælda bearn  thus the sons of men
æfter hergen,              will praise him afterwards,
ond his lof siþþan      and his fame will eternally
lifge mid englum       live with the angels.

Translation Notes by Michael R. Burch

[1a] Here, gebiden hæbbe suggests that the negative experiences continue.
[1b] Here, cearselda means something like 'care-place, ' 'care-hold' or 'care-abode.'
[2a] Here, winemægum means something like 'wine-friend, ' 'wine-brothers' or 'dear kinsmen.'
[3a] Here, hrimgicelum means something like 'rime crystals' or 'icicles.'
[4a] Here, wlonc ond wingal means something like 'haughty/proud and flushed with wine.' The phrase also appears in 'The Ruin.'
[5a] Here, corna means 'grain' as maize had yet to be discovered by Europeans.
[5b] Here, sylf cunnige means something like 'self-exploration' or 'self-discovery.'
[6a] Here, his gifena þæs god may mean something like 'so good in his gifts' or 'so generous in his gifts.'
[7a] Here, modes fusne seems to mean something like 'a doom-eager mind' or a 'death wish.'
[8a] Here, ecghete seems to mean 'edge hate' or the hatred of a sword's edge or blade.



This an early Middle English poem that is a 'bridge' of sorts between Anglo-Saxon poetry and later Middle English poetry...

Brut (circa 1100 AD, written by Layamon, an excerpt)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now he stands on a hill overlooking the Avon,
seeing steel fishes girded with swords in the stream,
their swimming days done,
their scales a-gleam like gold-plated shields,
their fish-spines floating like shattered spears.

Layamon's Brut is a 32,000-line poem composed in Middle English that shows a strong Anglo-Saxon influence and contains the first known reference to King Arthur in English.



Now skruketh rose and lylie flour
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 11th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now skruketh rose and lylie flour,  // Now the rose and the lily skyward flower,
That whilen ber that suete savour // That will bear for awhile that sweet savor:
In somer, that suete tyde;  // In summer, that sweet tide;
Ne is no quene so stark ne stour,  // There is no queen so stark in her power
Ne no luedy so bryht in bour // Nor any lady so bright in her bower
That ded ne shal by glyde:  // That Death shall not summon and guide;
Whoso wol fleshye lust for-gon and hevene-blisse abyde // But whoever forgoes lust, in heavenly bliss will abide
On Jhesu be is thoht anon, that tharled was ys side. // With his thoughts on Jesus anon, thralled at his side.

skruketh = break forth, burst open; stour = strong, stern, hardy; tharled = thralled? , made a serf? , bound?



ANGLO-SAXON RIDDLES AND KENNINGS

Riddle: Water Become Bone
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Wonder-wrought waves: water become bone!

(Solution: Ice on a frozen lake or seashore.)



Riddle: A Female Brooding
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I saw a female, solitary, brooding.

(Solution: A hen, and perhaps a human woman left to bear and raise her children alone, because some cocky rooster refused to accept his responsibility as their father.)



Kenning: A Moth Devoured Words
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A moth devoured words!
When I heard about this horrific theft,
I thought it passing strange
that an insect can feast on a man's finest song,
gorge on his grandiloquence,
riddle his most righteous rhetoric.
But then I realized: the wee bookworm
wandered away not one whit the wiser!

(Kenning: A moth is not fooled or impressed by man's rhetoric. Nor is there anything to be learned in foppish nonsense, even by the smallest of bookworms.)



Some of these poems may be described as 'gnomic verses, ' 'maxims' and 'metrical proverbs' or 'alliterative proverbs.' 

Anglo-Saxon Gnomic Verses
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Frost shall freeze,
           fire feast on firs,
earth breed blizzards,
           brazen ice bridge,
water wear shields,
          oxen axe frost's fetters,
freeing the grain
          from ice-imprisonment...

Winter shall wane,
         warm winds return:
spring sunned into summer!

Kings shall win
         wise queens with largesse,
with beakers and bracelets;
         both must be
generous with their gifts.

Courage must create
         war-lust in a lord
while his woman shows
         kindness to her people,
delightful in dress,
         interpreter of rune-words,
roomy-hearted
         at hearth-sharing and horse-giving.


Riddle: The Curious Creature
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I'm a curious creature;
I satisfy women, and sometimes their neighbors!
(After a brief period of anticipation,
in which I offer them hope of pleasures to come.)
No one suffers because of me, except my slayer.
I grow erect in bed.
I'm hairy underneath.
Sometimes a beautiful girl,
the brave daughter of some commoner
who's not above my low station
grabs me eagerly,
manipulates my russet skin,
holds me hard,
cleanses my head,
then keeps me handy, nearby.
But the girl who keeps me confined
will soon feel the effects:
I make her wet.



Riddle: A Curious Thing Hangs
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A curious thing hangs,
dangles by a man's thigh,
covered by his clothes.
It has an eye in its head;
it's stiff and hard;
and because it's borne firmly it yields a reward.
The man pulls his clothes above his knee,
in order to poke the head of his hanging thing
into that old familiar hole it fits so well,
and has filled so many times before.

(Solution: A key worn secretly inside a man's clothes, perhaps a priest's robe. If so, the poem could 'poke' fun at the clergy, who were supposed to be celibate but often had mistresses.)



Riddle: The Swollen Thing
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I heard there's something growing in its nook,
swelling, rising, and expanding,
pushing up against and lifting its covering.
I heard a cocky-minded young woman kneaded that boneless thing with her hands,
then covered its tumescence with a soft cloth.

(Solution: Dough rising.)



Riddle: I Watched Two Wondrous Creatures
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I watched a wondrous creature, a bright unicorn,
bearing away treasure between her white horns,
fetching it home from some distant adventure.
I'm sure she intended to hide her loot in some lofty stronghold
constructed with incredible cunning, her craft.
But then climbing the sky-cliffs a far greater creature arose,
her fiery face familiar to all earth's inhabitants.
She seized all the spoils, driving the albescent creature
with her wrecked dreams far to the west,
spewing wild insults as she scurried home.
Dust rose heavenward. Dew descended.
Night fled, and afterward
No man knew where the white creature went.

(Solution: The sun and the moon.)



Kenning: The Whale
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now, I will sing about this strange fishes' kin,
finned like no flounder, and no friend to men:
The mighty Leviathan.

He floats in the ocean like a regal rock;
men mistake him for an island; some try to dock,
seldom with any luck.

But if they 'make land, ' securing their ship
with great, heavy ropes from which green seaweed drips,
he soon dives to the bottom, taking them for a dip!

The whale is a demon, the siren of the seas;
he lures men and fish with his fragrant ambergris
into his dark gullet, ignoring their pleas!

His father, the Devil, does the same thing as well:
offers 'comfort' and 'haven' when wild tempests swell,
then drags dull men down to the darkest depths of hell.

(Kenning: The Whale is like his father, the Devil, in tactics, and many unwitting men are their victims.)



Riddle: The Sea Suckled Me
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The sea suckled me; the wild waves washed me;
I was rocked by breakers in my restless cradle.
Footless but fixed, I opened my wordless mouth to the life-giving floods.
But soon some man will come to consume me,
slip the point of his knife savagely into my side,
slide it down, ripping the flesh from my bones,
then slurp me in raw, smiling as he sucks me down.

(Solution: An Oyster.)



Here is a somewhat more modern English riddle-poem that may have been influenced by the older Anglo-Saxon scops and their riddle-poems:

I Have a Yong Suster (Medieval English Riddle-Poem, circa 1430)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I have a yong suster                               I have a young sister
Fer biyonde the see;                               Far beyond the sea;
Manye be the druries                             Many are the keepsakes
That she sente me.                                 That she sent me.

She sente me the cherye                         She sent me the cherry
Withouten any stoon,                              Without any stone;
And so she dide the dove                       And also the dove
Withouten any boon.                              Without any bone.

She sente me the brere                           She sent me the briar
Withouten any rinde;                               Without any skin;
She bad me love my lemman                  She bade me love my lover
Withoute longinge.                                 Without longing.

How sholde any cherye                          How should any cherry
Be withoute stoon?                                  Be without a stone?
And how sholde any dove                       And how should any dove
Be withoute boon?                                   Be without a bone?

How sholde any brere                             How should any briar
Be withoute rinde?                                   Be without a skin?
How sholde I love my lemman                 And how should I love my lover
Withoute longinge?                                   Without longing?

Whan the cherye was a flowr,                   When the cherry was a flower,
Thanne hadde it no stoon;                         Then it had no stone;
Whan the dove was an ey,                        When the dove was an egg,
Thanne hadde it no boon.                         Then it had no bone.

Whan the brere was unbred,                      When the briar was unborn,
Thanne hadde it no rinde;                           Then it had no skin;
Whan the maiden hath that she loveth,        And when a maiden has her mate,
She is withoute longinge.                           She is without longing!

That is a wickedly funny ending!



How Long the Night
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts
with the mild pheasants' song...
but now I feel the northern wind's blast—
its severe weather strong.
Alas! Alas! This night seems so long!
And I, because of my momentous wrong
now grieve, mourn and fast.



This World's Joy
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Winter awakens all my care
as leafless trees grow bare.
For now my sighs are fraught
whenever it enters my thought:
regarding this world's joy,
how everything comes to naught.



I Have Labored Sore
(anonymous medieval lyric circa the fifteenth century)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I have labored sore          and suffered death,
so now I rest           and catch my breath.
But I shall come      and call right soon
heaven and earth          and hell to doom.
Then all shall know           both devil and man
just who I was               and what I am.



Pity Mary
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now the sun passes under the wood:
I rue, Mary, thy face—fair, good.
Now the sun passes under the tree:
I rue, Mary, thy son and thee.



Fowles in the Frith
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The fowls in the forest,
the fishes in the flood
and I must go mad:
such sorrow I've had
for beasts of bone and blood!



I am of Ireland
(anonymous Medieval Irish lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I am of Ireland,
and of the holy realm of Ireland.
Gentlefolk, I pray thee:
for the sake of saintly charity,
come dance with me
in Ireland!



Westron Wynde
(anonymous Middle English lyric, found in a partbook circa 1530 AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Western wind, when will you blow,
bringing the drizzling rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms,
and I in my bed again!



Sumer is icumen in
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1260 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sing now cuckoo! Sing, cuckoo!
Sing, cuckoo! Sing now cuckoo!

Summer is a-comin'!
Sing loud, cuckoo!
The seed grows,
The meadow blows,
The woods spring up anew.
Sing, cuckoo!

The ewe bleats for her lamb;
The cows contentedly moo;
The bullock roots;
The billy-goat poots...
Sing merrily, cuckoo!

Cuckoo, cuckoo,
You sing so well, cuckoo!
Never stop, until you're through!



This is a lighthearted modern take on the ancient poem, for those of us who suffer with hay fever and other allergies:

Sumer is icumen in
a modern English translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sumer is icumen in
Lhude sing achu!
Groweth sed
And bloweth hed
And buyeth med?
Cuccu!



Excerpt from "Ubi Sunt Qui Ante Nos Fuerunt? "
(anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1275)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Where are the men who came before us,
who led hounds and hawks to the hunt,
who commanded fields and woods?
Where are the elegant ladies in their boudoirs
who braided gold through their hair
and had such fair complexions?

Once eating and drinking gladdened their hearts;
they enjoyed their games;
men bowed before them;
they bore themselves loftily...
But then, in an eye's twinkling,
they were gone.

Where now are their laughter and their songs,
the trains of their dresses,
the arrogance of their entrances and exits,
their hawks and their hounds?
All their joy has vanished;
their "well" has come to "oh, well"
and to many dark days...



A Lyke-Wake Dirge
(anonymous medieval lyric circa the sixteenth century)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The Lie-Awake Dirge is "the night watch kept over a corpse."

This one night, this one night,
every night and all;
fire and sleet and candlelight,
and Christ receive thy soul.

When from this earthly life you pass
every night and all,
to confront your past you must come at last,
and Christ receive thy soul.

If you ever donated socks and shoes,
every night and all,
sit right down and slip yours on,
and Christ receive thy soul.

But if you never helped your brother,
every night and all,
walk barefoot through the flames of hell,
and Christ receive thy soul.

If ever you shared your food and drink,
every night and all,
the fire will never make you shrink,
and Christ receive thy soul.

But if you never helped your brother,
every night and all,
walk starving through the black abyss,
and Christ receive thy soul.

This one night, this one night,
every night and all;
fire and sleet and candlelight,
and Christ receive thy soul.



Adam Lay Ybounden
(anonymous Medieval English lyric, circa early 15th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Adam lay bound, bound in a bond;
Four thousand winters, he thought, were not too long.
And all was for an apple, an apple that he took,
As clerics now find written in their book.
But had the apple not been taken, or had it never been,
We'd never have had our Lady, heaven's queen and matron.
So blesséd be the time the apple was taken thus;
Therefore we sing, 'God is gracious! '

The poem has also been rendered as 'Adam lay i-bounden' and 'Adam lay i-bowndyn.'



I Sing of a Maiden
(anonymous Medieval English Lyric, circa early 15th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I sing of a maiden
That is matchless.
The King of all Kings
For her son she chose.
He came also as still
To his mother's breast
As April dew
Falling on the grass.
He came also as still
To his mother's bower
As April dew
Falling on the flower.
He came also as still
To where his mother lay
As April dew
Falling on the spray.
Mother and maiden?
Never one, but she!
Well may such a lady
God's mother be!



Fairest Between Lincoln and Lindsey
(anonymous Middle English poem, circa late 13th century)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When the nightingale sings, the woods turn green;
Leaf and grass again blossom in April, I know,
Yet love pierces my heart with its spear so keen!
Night and day it drinks my blood. The painful rivulets flow.

I've loved all this year. Now I can love no more;
I've sighed many a sigh, sweetheart, and yet all seems wrong.
For love is no nearer and that leaves me poor.
Sweet lover, think of me — I've loved you so long!



A cleric courts his lady
(anonymous Middle English poem, circa late 13th century)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My death I love, my life I hate, because of a lovely lady;
She's as bright as the broad daylight, and shines on me so purely.
I fade before her like a leaf in summer when it's green.
If thinking of her does no good, to whom shall I complain?



The Song of Amergin (I)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I am the sea blast
I am the tidal wave
I am the thunderous surf
I am the stag of the seven tines
I am the cliff hawk
I am the sunlit dewdrop
I am the fairest of flowers
I am the rampaging boar
I am the swift-swimming salmon
I am the placid lake
I am the summit of art
I am the vale echoing voices
I am the battle-hardened spearhead
I am the God who inflames desire
Who gives you fire
Who knows the secrets of the unhewn dolmen
Who announces the ages of the moon
Who knows where the sunset settles



The Song of Amergin (II)
a more imaginative translation by Michael R. Burch, after Robert Bridges

I am the stag of the seven tines;
I am the bull of the seven battles;
I am the boar of the seven bristles;

I am the flood cresting plains;
I am the wind sweeping tranquil waters;
I am the swift-swimming salmon in the shallow pool;

I am the sunlit dewdrop;
I am the fairest of flowers;
I am the crystalline fountain;

I am the hawk harassing its prey;
I am the demon ablaze in the campfire;  
I am the battle-hardened spearhead;

I am the vale echoing voices;
I am the sea's roar;
I am the surging sea wave;

I am the summit of art;
I am the God who inflames desires;
I am the giver of fire;

Who knows the ages of the moon;
Who knows where the sunset settles;
Who knows the secrets of the unhewn dolmen.



The Song of Amergin
an original poem by Michael R. Burch

He was our first bard
and we feel in his dim-remembered words
the moment when Time blurs...

and he and the Sons of Mil
heave oars as the breakers mill
till at last Ierne—green, brooding—nears,

while Some implore seas cold, fell, dark
to climb and swamp their flimsy bark
... and Time here also spumes, careers...

while the Ban Shee shriek in awed dismay
to see him still the sea, this day,
then seek the dolmen and the gloam.