I was once a warrior's weapon.
Now a noble young retainer
dresses me in threads of twisted gold
and silver. At time men kiss me,
at times I summon close friends
to do battle; a horse sometimes bears me
over the earth, sea-horses sometimes
sweep me, gleaming, over the ocean;
now and then a maiden, ring-adorned,
replenishes my paunch. I must lie on planks
at times, plundered, hard and headless;
often, gold-garbed, I hang on the wall
above drinking warriors, a splendid sight,
instrument of war. Covered in riches,
I draw in breath from a brave man's lungs
when retainers ride towards battle.
At times I tell proud warriors
that wine is served; at times rally them,
save booty from hostile men, drive off
the enemy. Now ask me my name.

Whereas my neck is white, my head
and sides are brown; I move swiftly
and bear a battle-weapon; hair covers my back
and my cheeks as well; two ears tower high
above my eyes. I step on my toes through
the green grass. Grief is ordained for me
if any fierce creature should catch me
in my hole where I have my house and children;
should I stay there with my offspring
after this guest comes knocking
at my door, they are doomed to die.
I must bravely carry my infants
far from our house, save them by flight,
if that creature still follows me.
He advances on his breast. I dare not await him
in my hole . . . that was not a wise plan at all.
I must burrow through the steep hillside
With my two forefeet as fast as I can.
I can save the lives of my loved ones
with ease, once I've guided them out
by a secret way through a hole in the hill.
Then, if it comes to blows and battle,
I feel no fear of this murderous foe.
If he still gives me chase
through that narrow hole I've just made in the hill,
I will not fail to fight him fiercely.
Once I've tunnelled my way to the top,
I will angrily batter my enemy,
That hateful foe from whom I long fled.

I must fight with the waves whipped up by the wind,
grapple alone with their force combined,
when I dive to earth under the sea.
My own country is unknown to me.
If I can stay still, I'm strong in the fray;
If not, their might is greater than mine,
they'll break me in fragments and put me to flight,
meaning to wreck what I must protect.
I can foil them if my fins are not frail,
and the rocks hold firm against my force.
You know my nature, now guess my name.

Confined by a wire fence, and filled
with princely treasures, I'm the bulwark
of my people. Many is the morning
I spew spear-terror; the more I'm fed,
the greater my strength. My guardian watches
how darts whistle out of my belly.
At times I almost swallow the burnished
dark bolts, the baleful weapons,
searing poisoned spears, esteemed by warriors.
Men remember what issues from my mouth.

I'm a strange creature, shaped for a scrap,
dear to my lord, finely decorated.
My clothing is motley and bright metal threads
mount the deadly jewel my master
gave me - the man who at times involves me
in a fight. I carry treasure then,
the handiwork of smiths, gold in the court,
all the clear day. I often dispatch
well-armed warriors. A king enriches me
with silver and precious stones, honours me
in the hall; he doesn't stint but sings my praises
to the gathering - men swigging mead;
at times he holds me in reserve, at times
sets me free, travel-weary, eager
in the fray. Often I put friend
at the throats of friends; I'm widely reviled,
the most accursed of weapons. If a cruel warrior
should assault me in battle, I cannot hope
for a son to avenge me on my slayer;
nor will the family from which I sprang
be increased through children of mine
unless, lordless, I have to leave
the guardian who once gave me rings.
If I follow a warrior and fight on his behalf,
as I done before for my master's satisfaction,
I must forego, as fate wills, the chance
to father children. I cannot lie
with a woman, but the same man who once
bound me with a belt denies me now
the rapture of love play; I must enjoy
the treasure of heroes single and celibate.
Tricked out with metal threads, I often
irritate and frustrate some woman; she insults me,
smacks her hands and runs me down,
yells abuses. This is not my kind of contest . . .