This is a highly interpretive translation of a 10th century (?) Anglo-Saxon poem that I have rendered in my own style. First there is my translation; below is the actual text of the poem as it appears in the Exeter Book (10th century CE).
Deor
Weland, ready for worms by swords’ cruel bite
Experienced a world of hardship
Agony was his only friend.
Friends fierce and heartless,
They wracked him with sorrow:
He nearly fell
King Nithad bested him!
Weland, the better man:
Nithad hamstrung him
And set him on the ground
That is in the past,
Soon will our troubles be.
Beadohild’s mind was tormented
By the death of her brothers;
But knowing she was large with child,
Little she cared for the outcome of that,
So great was her brothers’ burden
That is in the past,
Soon will our troubles be
Matilda, too, we have heard of,
How her troubles were deep and numerous,
Love-pangs deprived her of blessed sleep
That is in the past,
Soon will our troubles be
Theodric for thirty winters
Held sway over Maeringaburg:
Few were unaware of that!
That is in the past,
Soon will our troubles be
Wolf-minded Eormanric ruled the Goths.
What a grim king he was!
Many warriors bound,
Beset by sorrow,
Prayed heartily for the overthrow
Of that tyrant
That is in the past,
Soon will our troubles be
In the darkness his soul finds solace,
Thinking this is the only place for him.
Turning to the Lord he finds
That all the world is beset with sorrow:
Such is the lot of men.
But honor and glory come to some –
To him, the question remains.
Now let me speak of myself:
For some time I sang songs to the lord of the Hedenings.
I was beloved!
Deor was my name.
Winters passed in this prestigious state.
My lord loyal
Until Heorrenda
Songmaster
Bested me!
And my protector no longer wants me.
Like a lone warrior, I am left without sword.
That is in the past,
Soon will our troubles be
Deor (Anglo-Saxon poem, ca. 900 CE)
Welund him be wurman wræces cunnade,
anhydig eorl earfoþa dreag,
hæfde him to gesiþþe sorge ond longaþ,
wintercealde wræce; wean oft onfond,
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siþþan hine Niðhad on nede legde,
swoncre seonobende on syllan monn.
þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg!
Beadohilde ne wæs hyre broþra deaþ
on sefan swa sar swa hyre sylfre þing,
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þæt heo gearolice ongieten hæfde
þæt heo eacen wæs; æfre ne meahte
þriste geþencan, hu ymb þæt sceolde.
þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg!
We þæt Mæðhilde monge gefrugnon
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wurdon grundlease Geates frige,
þæt hi seo sorglufu slæp ealle binom.
þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg!
ðeodric ahte þritig wintra
Mæringa burg; þæt wæs monegum cuþ.
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þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg!
We geascodan Eormanrices
wylfenne geþoht; ahte wide folc
Gotena rices. þæt wæs grim cyning.
Sæt secg monig sorgum gebunden,
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wean on wenan, wyscte geneahhe
þæt þæs cynerices ofercumen wære.
þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg!
Siteð sorgcearig, sælum bidæled,
on sefan sweorceð, sylfum þinceð
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þæt sy endeleas earfoða dæl.
Mæg þonne geþencan, þæt geond þas woruld
witig dryhten wendeþ geneahhe,
eorle monegum are gesceawað,
wislicne blæd, sumum weana dæl.
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þæt ic bi me sylfum secgan wille,
þæt ic hwile wæs Heodeninga scop,
dryhtne dyre. Me wæs Deor noma.
Ahte ic fela wintra folgað tilne,
holdne hlaford, oþþæt Heorrenda nu,
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leoðcræftig monn londryht geþah,
þæt me eorla hleo ær gesealde.
þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg!
