text: May I for my own self song's truth reckon,
  Journey's jargon, how I in harsh days
  Hardship endured oft.
  Bitter breast-cares have I abided,
  Known on my keel many a care's hold,
  And dire sea-surge, and there I oft spent
  Narrow nightwatch nigh the ship's head
  While she tossed close to cliffs. Coldly afflicted,
  My feet were by frost benumbed.
  Chill its chains are; chafing sighs
  Hew my heart round and hunger begot
  Mere-weary mood. Lest man know not
  That he on dry land loveliest liveth,
  List how I, care-wretched, on ice-cold sea,
  Weathered the winter, wretched outcast
  Deprived of my kinsmen;
  Hung with hard ice-flakes, where hail-scur flew,
  There I heard naught save the harsh sea
  And ice-cold wave, at whiles the swan cries,
  Did for my games the gannet's clamour,
  Sea-fowls, loudness was for me laughter,
  The mews' singing all my mead-drink.
  Storms, on the stone-cliffs beaten, fell on the stern
  In icy feathers; full oft the eagle screamed
  With spray on his pinion.
  Not any protector
  May make merry man faring needy.
  This he little believes, who aye in winsome life
  Abides 'mid burghers some heavy business,
  Wealthy and wine-flushed, how I weary oft
  Must bide above brine.
  Neareth nightshade, snoweth from north,
  Frost froze the land, hail fell on earth then
  Corn of the coldest. Nathless there knocketh now
  The heart's thought that I on high streams
  The salt-wavy tumult traverse alone.
  Moaneth alway my mind's lust
  That I fare forth, that I afar hence
  Seek out a foreign fastness.
  For this there's no mood-lofty man over earth's midst,
  Not though he be given his good, but will have in his youth greed;
  Nor his deed to the daring, nor his king to the faithful
  But shall have his sorrow for sea-fare
  Whatever his lord will.
  He hath not heart for harping, nor in ring-having
  Nor winsomeness to wife, nor world's delight
  Nor any whit else save the wave's slash,
  Yet longing comes upon him to fare forth on the water.
  Bosque taketh blossom, cometh beauty of berries,
  Fields to fairness, land fares brisker,
  All this admonisheth man eager of mood,
  The heart turns to travel so that he then thinks
  On flood-ways to be far departing.
  Cuckoo calleth with gloomy crying,
  He singeth summerward, bodeth sorrow,
  The bitter heart's blood. Burgher knows not
  He the prosperous man  what some perform
  Where wandering them widest draweth.
  So that but now my heart burst from my breast-lock,
  My mood 'mid the mere-flood,
  Over the whale's acre, would wander wide.
  On earth's shelter cometh oft to me,
  Eager and ready, the crying lone-flyer,
  Whets for the whale-path the heart irresistibly,
  O'er tracks of ocean; seeing that anyhow
  My lord deems to me this dead life
  On loan and on land, I believe not
  That any earth-weal eternal standeth
  Save there be somewhat calamitous
  That, ere a man's tide go, turn it to twain.
  Disease or oldness or sword-hate
  Beats out the breath from doom-gripped body.
  And for this, every earl whatever, for those speaking after
  Laud of the living, boasteth some last word,
  That he will work ere he pass onward,
  Frame on the fair earth 'gainst foes his malice,
  Daring ado, ...
  So that all men shall honour him after
  And his laud beyond them remain 'mid the English,
  Aye, for ever, a lasting life's-blast,
  Delight mid the doughty.
  Days little durable,
  And all arrogance of earthen riches,
  There come now no kings nor Csars
  Nor gold-giving lords like those gone.
  Howe'er in mirth most magnified,
  Whoe'er lived in life most lordliest,
  Drear all this excellence, delights undurable!
  Waneth the watch, but the world holdeth.
  Tomb hideth trouble. The blade is layed low.
  Earthly glory ageth and seareth.
  No man at all going the earth's gait,
  But age fares against him, his face paleth,
  Grey-haired he groaneth, knows gone companions,
  Lordly men are to earth o'ergiven,
  Nor may he then the flesh-cover, whose life ceaseth,
  Nor eat the sweet nor feel the sorry,
  Nor stir hand nor think in mid heart,
  And though he strew the grave with gold,
  His born brothers, their buried bodies
  Be an unlikely treasure hoard.