The formatting for this came out a bit oddly, but it seems ok. This is an old Anglo-Saxon Poem entitled, “The Wanderer”. Tolkien referenced this poem in the Two Towers. (See the note on the website I copied this from.) What I’ve copied and pasted here is the text. The Anglo-Saxon version on the left, and the English translation on the right. Have a read and enjoy. For fantasy gaming, I personally find stuff like this fascinating, and am always looking to sneak tidbits of ancient texts into my games. I find it really adds a certain type of flavor.
Thanks for reading!
| Oft him anhaga | Often the solitary one | |
| are gebideð, | finds grace for himself | |
| metudes miltse, | the mercy of the Lord, | |
| þeah þe he modcearig | Although he, sorry-hearted, | |
| geond lagulade | must for a long time | |
| longe sceolde | move by hand [in context = row] | |
| 4a | hreran mid hondum | along the waterways, |
| hrimcealde sæ | (along) the ice-cold sea, | |
| wadan wræclastas. | tread the paths of exile. | |
| Wyrd bið ful aræd! | Events always go as they must! |
| Swa cwæð eardstapa, | So spoke the wanderer, | |
| earfeþa gemyndig, | mindful of hardships, | |
| wraþra wælsleahta, | of fierce slaughters | |
| winemæga hryre: | and the downfall of kinsmen: |
| 8a | Oft ic sceolde ana | Often (or always) I had alone |
| uhtna gehwylce | to speak of my trouble | |
| mine ceare cwiþan. | each morning before dawn. | |
| Nis nu cwicra nan | There is none now living | |
| þe ic him modsefan | to whom I dare | |
| minne durre | clearly speak | |
| sweotule asecgan. | of my innermost thoughts. | |
| Ic to soþe wat | I know it truly, | |
| 12a | þæt biþ in eorle | that it is in men |
| indryhten þeaw, | a noble custom, | |
| þæt he his ferðlocan | that one should keep secure | |
| fæste binde, | his spirit-chest (mind), | |
| healde his hordcofan, | guard his treasure-chamber (thoughts), | |
| hycge swa he wille. | think as he wishes. | |
| Ne mæg werig mod | The weary spirit cannot | |
| wyrde wiðstondan, | withstand fate (the turn of events), | |
| 16a | ne se hreo hyge | nor does a rough or sorrowful mind |
| helpe gefremman. | do any good (perform anything helpful). | |
| Forðon domgeorne | Thus those eager for glory | |
| dreorigne oft | often keep secure | |
| in hyra breostcofan | dreary thoughts | |
| bindað fæste; | in their breast; | |
| swa ic modsefan | So I, | |
| minne sceolde, | often wretched and sorrowful, | |
| 20a | oft earmcearig, | bereft of my homeland, |
| eðle bidæled, | far from noble kinsmen, | |
| freomægum feor | have had to bind in fetters | |
| feterum sælan, | my inmost thoughts, | |
| siþþan geara iu | Since long years ago | |
| goldwine minne | I hid my lord | |
| hrusan heolstre biwrah, | in the darkness of the earth, | |
| ond ic hean þonan | and I, wretched, from there | |
| 24a | wod wintercearig | travelled most sorrowfully |
| ofer waþema gebind, | over the frozen waves, | |
| sohte seledreorig | sought, sad at the lack of a hall, | |
| sinces bryttan, | a giver of treasure, | |
| hwær ic feor oþþe neah | where I, far or near, | |
| findan meahte | might find | |
| þone þe in meoduhealle | one in the meadhall who | |
| mine wisse, | knew my people, | |
| 28a | oþþe mec freondleasne | or wished to console |
| frefran wolde, | the friendless one, me, | |
| wenian mid wynnum. | entertain (me) with delights. | |
| Wat se þe cunnað | He who has tried it knows | |
| hu sliþen bið | how cruel is | |
| sorg to geferan | sorrow as a companion | |
| þam þe him lyt hafað | to the one who has few | |
| leofra geholena: | beloved friends: | |
| 32a | warað hine wræclast, | the path of exile (wræclast) holds him, |
| nales wunden gold, | not at all twisted gold, | |
| ferðloca freorig, | a frozen spirit, | |
| nalæs foldan blæd. | not the bounty of the earth. | |
| Gemon he selesecgas | He remembers hall-warriors | |
| ond sincþege, | and the giving of treasure | |
| hu hine on geoguðe | How in youth his lord (gold-friend) | |
| his goldwine | accustomed him | |
| 36a | wenede to wiste. | to the feasting. |
| Wyn eal gedreas! | All the joy has died! |
| Forþon wat se þe sceal | And so he knows it, he who must | |
| his winedryhtnes | forgo for a long time | |
| leofes larcwidum | the counsels | |
| longe forþolian: | of his beloved lord: | |
| ðonne sorg ond slæð | Then sorrow and sleep | |
| somod ætgædre | both together | |
| 40a | earmne anhogan | often tie up |
| oft gebindað. | the wretched solitary one. | |
| þinceð him on mode | He thinks in his mind | |
| þæt he his mondryhten | that he embraces and kisses | |
| clyppe ond cysse, | his lord, | |
| ond on cneo lecge | and on his (the lord’s) knees lays | |
| honda ond heafod, | his hands and his head, | |
| swa he hwilum ær | Just as, at times (hwilum), before, | |
| 44a | in geardagum | in days gone by, |
| giefstolas breac. | he enjoyed the gift-seat (throne). | |
| Ðonne onwæcneð eft | Then the friendless man | |
| wineleas guma, | wakes up again, | |
| gesihð him biforan | He sees before him | |
| fealwe wegas, | fallow waves | |
| baþian brimfuglas, | Sea birds bathe, | |
| brædan feþra, | preening their feathers, | |
| 48a | hreosan hrim ond snaw | Frost and snow fall, |
| hagle gemenged. | mixed with hail. |
| Þonne beoð þy hefigran | Then are the heavier | |
| heortan benne, | the wounds of the heart, | |
| sare æfter swæsne. | grievous (sare) with longing for (æfter) the lord. | |
| Sorg bið geniwad | Sorrow is renewed | |
| þonne maga gemynd | when the mind (mod) surveys | |
| mod geondhweorfeð; | the memory of kinsmen; | |
| 52a | greteð gliwstafum, | He greets them joyfully, |
| georne geondsceawað | eagerly scans | |
| secga geseldan; | the companions of men; | |
| swimmað oft on weg | they always swim away. | |
| fleotendra ferð | The spirits of seafarers | |
| no þær fela bringeð | never bring back there much | |
| cuðra cwidegiedda. | in the way of known speech. | |
| Cearo bið geniwad | Care is renewed | |
| 56a | þam þe sendan sceal | for the one who must send |
| swiþe geneahhe | very often | |
| ofer waþema gebind | over the binding of the waves | |
| werigne sefan. | a weary heart. |
| Forþon ic geþencan ne mæg | Indeed I cannot think | |
| geond þas woruld | why my spirit | |
| for hwan modsefa | does not darken | |
| min ne gesweorce | when I ponder on the whole | |
| 60a | þonne ic eorla lif | life of men |
| eal geondþence, | throughout the world, | |
| hu hi færlice | How they suddenly | |
| flet ofgeafon, | left the floor (hall), | |
| modge maguþegnas. | the proud thanes. | |
| Swa þes middangeard | So this middle-earth, | |
| ealra dogra gehwam | a bit each day, | |
| dreoseð ond fealleð; | droops and decays – | |
| 64a | forþon ne mæg weorþan wis | Therefore man (wer) |
| wer, ær he age | cannot call himself wise, before he has | |
| wintra dæl in woruldrice. | a share of years in the world. | |
| Wita sceal geþyldig, | A wise man must be patient, | |
| ne sceal no to hatheort | He must never be too impulsive | |
| ne to hrædwyrde, | nor too hasty of speech, | |
| ne to wac wiga | nor too weak a warrior | |
| ne to wanhydig, | nor too reckless, | |
| 68a | ne to forht ne to fægen, | nor too fearful, nor too cheerful, |
| ne to feohgifre | nor too greedy for goods, | |
| ne næfre gielpes to georn, | nor ever too eager for boasts, | |
| ær he geare cunne. | before he sees clearly. | |
| Beorn sceal gebidan, | A man must wait | |
| þonne he beot spriceð, | when he speaks oaths, | |
| oþþæt collenferð | until the proud-hearted one | |
| cunne gearwe | sees clearly | |
| 72a | hwider hreþra gehygd | whither the intent of his heart |
| hweorfan wille. | will turn. | |
| Ongietan sceal gleaw hæle | A wise hero must realize | |
| hu gæstlic bið, | how terrible it will be, | |
| þonne ealre þisse worulde wela | when all the wealth of this world | |
| weste stondeð, | lies waste, | |
| swa nu missenlice | as now in various places | |
| geond þisne middangeard | throughout this middle-earth | |
| 76a | winde biwaune | walls stand, |
| weallas stondaþ, | blown by the wind, | |
| hrime bihrorene, | covered with frost, | |
| hryðge þa ederas. | storm-swept the buildings. | |
| Woriað þa winsalo, | The halls decay, | |
| waldend licgað | their lords lie | |
| dreame bidrorene, | deprived of joy, | |
| duguþ eal gecrong, | the whole troop has fallen, | |
| 80a | wlonc bi wealle. | the proud ones, by the wall. |
| Sume wig fornom, | War took off some, | |
| ferede in forðwege, | carried them on their way, | |
| sumne fugel oþbær | one, the bird took off | |
| ofer heanne holm, | across the deep sea, | |
| sumne se hara wulf | one, the gray wolf | |
| deaðe gedælde, | shared one with death, | |
| sumne dreorighleor | one, the dreary-faced | |
| 84a | in eorðscræfe | man buried |
| eorl gehydde. | in a grave. | |
| Yþde swa þisne eardgeard | And so He destroyed this city, | |
| ælda scyppend | He, the Creator of Men, | |
| oþþæt burgwara | until deprived of the noise | |
| breahtma lease | of the citizens, | |
| eald enta geweorc | the ancient work of giants | |
| idlu stodon. | stood empty. |
| 88a | Se þonne þisne wealsteal | He who thought wisely |
| wise geþohte | on this foundation, | |
| ond þis deorce lif | and pondered deeply | |
| deope geondþenceð, | on this dark life, | |
| frod in ferðe, | wise in spirit, | |
| feor oft gemon | remembered often from afar | |
| wælsleahta worn, | many conflicts, | |
| ond þas word acwið: | and spoke these words: |
| 92a | Hwær cwom mearg? Hwær cwom mago? [#] | Where is the horse gone? Where the rider? |
| Hwær cwom maþþumgyfa? | Where the giver of treasure? | |
| Hwær cwom symbla gesetu? | Where are the seats at the feast? | |
| Hwær sindon seledreamas? | Where are the revels in the hall? | |
| Eala beorht bune! | Alas for the bright cup! | |
| Eala byrnwiga! | Alas for the mailed warrior! | |
| Eala þeodnes þrym! | Alas for the splendour of the prince! | |
| Hu seo þrag gewat, | How that time has passed away, | |
| 96a | genap under nihthelm, | dark under the cover of night, |
| swa heo no wære. | as if it had never been! | |
| Stondeð nu on laste | Now there stands in the trace | |
| leofre duguþe | of the beloved troop | |
| weal wundrum heah, | a wall, wondrously high, | |
| wyrmlicum fah. | wound round with serpents. | |
| Eorlas fornoman | The warriors taken off | |
| asca þryþe, | by the glory of spears, | |
| 100a | wæpen wælgifru, | the weapons greedy for slaughter, |
| wyrd seo mære, | the famous fate (turn of events), | |
| ond þas stanhleoþu | and storms beat | |
| stormas cnyssað, | these rocky cliffs, | |
| hrið hreosende | falling frost | |
| hrusan bindeð, | fetters the earth, | |
| wintres woma, | the harbinger of winter; | |
| þonne won cymeð, | Then dark comes, | |
| 104a | nipeð nihtscua, | nightshadows deepen, |
| norþan onsendeð | from the north there comes | |
| hreo hæglfare | a rough hailstorm | |
| hæleþum on andan. | in malice against men. | |
| Eall is earfoðlic | All is troublesome | |
| eorþan rice, | in this earthly kingdom, | |
| onwendeð wyrda gesceaft | the turn of events changes | |
| weoruld under heofonum. | the world under the heavens. | |
| 108a | Her bið feoh læne, | Here money is fleeting, |
| her bið freond læne, | here friend is fleeting, | |
| her bið mon læne, | here man is fleeting, | |
| her bið mæg læne, | here kinsman is fleeting, | |
| eal þis eorþan gesteal | all the foundation of this world | |
| idel weorþeð! | turns to waste! |
| Swa cwæð snottor on mode, | So spake the wise man in his mind, | |
| gesæt him sundor æt rune. | where he sat apart in counsel. | |
| 112a | Til biþ se þe his treowe gehealdeþ, | Good is he who keeps his faith, |
| ne sceal næfre his torn to rycene | And a warrior must never speak | |
| beorn of his breostum acyþan, | his grief of his breast too quickly, | |
| nemþe he ær þa bote cunne, | unless he already knows the remedy – | |
| eorl mid elne gefremman. | a hero must act with courage. | |
| Wel bið þam þe him are seceð, | It is better for the one that seeks mercy, | |
| frofre to Fæder on heofonum, | consolation from the father in the heavens, | |
| þær us eal seo fæstnung stondeð. | where, for us, all permanence rests. |
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