Classic Poem

Æthelstan King, lord of eorls,
Ring-bestower, and also his brother,
Edmund Ætheling, won with the sword-edge
Lifelong glory in battle at Brunanburh.
They cut their way through the wall of shields,
Hacked the bucklers with hammered blades.
Such was the way of the sons of Eadweard,
Ever in battle with every foe
Defending their land, their hoard and their homes.
Foemen fell, the Scottish squadrons,
Ship-warriors also doomed to death.
The field was wet with the blood of battle
From the hour of dawn when the shining sun,
God's radiant candle, rose over earth
Till the noble creation sank to its setting.
Wounded with spears lay many a warrior,
Many a northern man shot over shield;
Scotsmen likewise sated with war.
All day long the West Saxon army
Followed the track of the hated foe,
Smote them down with sharp-edged swords.
The Mercians refused fierce hand-play to none
Of those who with Olaf over the sea
Sought this land in their broad-beamed ships,
Fated in war. Five young kings
Fell on the battlefield slain with swords;
Also seven of the eorls of Olaf
And a countless number of shipmen and Scots.
The prince of the Northmen was put to flight,
With a little band beaten back to his boat.
The ship was launched; the prince set sail
On the fallow surges and saved his skin.
Likewise also the aged Constantine
Fled in haste to his home in the north;
The white-haired warrior had no need to boast
Of that crossing of swords. He was shorn of kin,
Bereft of friends struck down in the fight
On the field of carnage. There amid corpses
He left his son, a stripling in battle
Broken with wounds. The gray-haired warrior,
The crafty old captain, had no cause to boast
Of the clash of swords, nor had Olaf any!
The few that were left had no need to laugh,
Or boast they were better in works of war,
On the field of battle, mid clash of banners,
Crashing of fighters and casting of spears,
In the storm of weapons, the carnage of war,
When they fought their fight with the sons of Eadweard.
The Northmen embarked in their well-nailed boats,
Bloody survivors of battle-spears,
Over Dinges Water returning to Dublin,
Back to Ireland, broken in mood.
Likewise also the brothers together,
King and prince returned to their people,
To the West Saxon country, proud of the war.
They left behind them to feast on the fallen
The dark raven, the dusky-coated
With horny beak, and the ash-feathered eagle
With white tail, and the war-hawk greedy
Gorging on carrion, and that gray beast,
The wolf in the wood. Nor of greater slaughter
In all this island was tale ever told
By scholar or book, or more folk felled
Slain by the sword, since hither from East
The Angles and Saxons sailed over sea,
Over broad billows seeking out Britain,
Great-hearted war-smiths eager for honor
Who harried the Welshmen and held the land.