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Translations of the Oldest English Rhyming Poems

The Rhymed Poem aka The Rhyming Poem aka The Riming Poem
Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem from the Exeter Book, circa 990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

(excerpt)
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 ...



Saint Godric of Finchale (circa 1170)
early Old English/Anglo-Saxon rhyming poems
translated by Michael R. Burch

1.
Led by Christ and Saint Mary, I was so graciously led
that the earth never felt my bare foot’s tread!

2.
Saintë Marië Virginë,
Mother of Jesus Christ the Nazarenë,
Welcome, shield and help thin Godric,
Fly him off to God’s kingdom rich!

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!

3.
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!



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

1.
The fish flooded the shore-cliffs;
the sea-king wept when he swam onto the shingle alone:
whale's bone. 

2.
Romulus and Remus, twin brothers weaned in Rome
by a she-wolf, far from their native land and home.



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



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 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.



Now skruketh rose and lylie flour
early Middle English poem, circa the 11th century
translation by Michael R. Burch

Now the rose and the lily skyward flower,
That will bear for awhile that sweet savor:
In summer, that sweet tide;
There is no queen so stark in her power
Nor any lady so bright in her bower
That Death shall not summon and guide;
But whoever forgoes lust, in heavenly bliss will abide
With his thoughts on Jesus anon, thralled at his side.



How Long the Night
ca. 13th century
translation 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.



Sumer is icumen in
ca. 1240
loose translation 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!



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.



Other translations of Anglo-Saxon poems, Old English poems, and Middle English poems by Michael R. Burch are available with Google searches:

"The Rhyming Poem" translation by Michael R. Burch (full version)
"Fowles in the Frith" translation by Michael R. Burch
"I am of Ireland" translation by Michael R. Burch
"Merciles Beaute" translation by Michael R. Burch
"Now Goeth Sun Under Wood" translation by Michael R. Burch
"Pity Mary" translation by Michael R. Burch
"The Wife's Lament" translation by Michael R. Burch
"The Husband's Message" translation by Michael R. Burch

Keywords/Tags: rhyme, rhymes, rhyming, rhymed, Old English, Anglo-Saxon, Middle English, Medieval English, translation, interpretation
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