Anglo-Saxon poetry - arras.net

his friends, beat on the battlefield at war – heleft his own son, so young! on the slaughterplace,wound-ravaged. Grayhairedman – hecould not boast of the battle-clash! no morethan Anlaf! Old wily-one! They could not,among such tatteredsquadrons, laugh thattheir war-field work was superior – not in therush of standards! in the meeting of spears!in the bruising of men! inthe weapons’exchange! when, with the kin of Edward,they sported on that slaughter-field. Then theNormans – arrows’ sadsurvivors! – left innailed-ships over Dingesmere, again overdeep water seeking Dublin – in Ireland, butashamed in spirit. So thebrothers – Kingand Prince both – sought native turf, the landof the West-Saxons, cheering war. Corpseswere left to be mashedby the rook, hornybeakedand dark-coated, and by the duncoated,white-headed eagle – a feast for thepg. 1 1