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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Widsith the Far-Traveler, Part III ancient Anglo-Saxon poem loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I was also with Eormanric for many years, as long as the Goth-King availed me well; he gave me six hundred shillings of pure gold beaten into a beautiful neck-ring! This I gave to Eadgils, overlord of the Myrgings and my protector when I returned home, a precious adornment for my beloved prince, after which he awarded me my father's estates. Ealhhild gave me another gift, that shining lady and majestic queen, the glorious daughter of Eadwine. I sang her praises in many lands, lauded her name, increased her fame, the fairest of all beneath the heavens, that gold-adorned queen, glad gift-sharer! Later, Scilling and I created a song for our warlord, my shining speech swelling to the sound of his harp, our voices in unison, so that many hardened men called it the most moving song they'd ever heard. Afterwards I wandered the Goths' homelands, always seeking the worthiest companions, such as could be found within Eormanric's horde. I sought Hethca, Beadeca and the Herelings, Emerca, Fridlal and the Ostrogoths, even the wise father of Unwen. I sought Secca and Becca, Seafola and Theodric, Heathoric and Sifeca, Hlithe and Ongentheow, Eadwine and Elsa, Ægelmund and Hungar, even the brave band of the Broad-Myrgings. I sought Wulfhere and Wyrmhere where war seldom slackened, when the forces of Hræda with hard-striking swords had to defend their imperiled homestead in the Wistla woods against Attila's hordes. I sought Rædhere, Rondhere, Rumstan and Gislhere, Withergield and Freotheric, Wudga and Hama, never the worst companions although I named them last. Often from this band flew shrill-whistling wooden shafts, shrieking spears from this ferocious nation, felling enemies because they wielded the wound gold, those good leaders, Wudga and Hama. I have always found this to be true in my far-venturing: that the dearest man among earth-dwellers is the one God gives to rule ably over others. But the makar's weird is to be a wanderer. [minstrel's fate] The minstrel travels far, from land to land, singing his needs, speaking his grateful thanks, whether in the sunny southlands or frigid northlands, measuring out his word-hoard to those unstingy of gifts, to those rare rulers who understand art's effect on the masses, to those open-handed lords who would have their fame spread, via a new praise-verse, thus earning enduring reputations under the heavens.
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