Deor

[mothwing]

Before I post my resolutions (which I'll without a doubt break this year, too) I have to share what I spent most of my time procrastinating with today, the Old English poem Deor.

It's from the Exeter Book, and it's strangely encouraging to me. In it the singer describes the various misfortunes that have befallen various heroes and then, finally, himself, always closing, "þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg", which is usually translated as, "this may overcome, so may this be", though it's more ambiguous in the original (for annotations, see here, and a modern English translation as well).

Cut for length.

Triggers: mention of rape, too, which goes for the modern version, too.

Welund him be wurman wræces cunnade,
anhydig eorl earfoþa dreag,
hæfde him to gesiþþe sorge and longaþ,
wintercealde wræce, wean oft onfond
siþþan hine Niðhad on nede legde,
swoncre seonobende on syllan monn.
Þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg.

Beadohilde ne wæs hyre broþra deaþ
on sefan swa sar swa hyre sylfre þing,
þæt heo gearolice ongietan hæfde
þæt heo eacen wæs; æfre ne meahte
þriste geþencan hu ymb þæt sceolde.
Þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg.

We þæt Mæðhilde mone gefrugnon
wurdon grundlease Geates frige,
þæt hi seo sorglufu slæp ealle binom.
Þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg.

Ðeodric ahte þritig wintra
Mæringa burg; þæt wæs monegum cuþ.
Þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg.

We geascodan Eormanrices
wylfenne geþoht; ahte wide folc
Gotena rices; þæt wæs grim cyning.
Sæt secg monig sorgum gebunden,
wean on wenan, wyscte geneahhe
þæt þæs cynerices ofercumen wære.
Þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg.

Siteð sorgcearig, sælum bidæled,
on sefan sweorceð, sylfum þinceð
þæt sy endeleas earfoða dæl,
mæg þonne geþencan þæt geond þas woruld
witig Dryhten wendeþ geneahhe,
eorle monegum are gesceawað,
wislicne blæd, sumum weana dæl.

Þæt ic bi me sylfum secgan wille,
þæt ic hwile wæs Heodeninga scop,
dryhtne dyre; me wæs Deor noma.
Ahte ic fela wintra folgað tilne,
holdne hlaford, oþ þæt Heorrenda nu,
leoðcræftig monn, londryht geþah
þæt me eorla hleo ær gesealde.
Þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg. >/lj-cut>

Comments

[kellychambliss.livejournal.com]

Ah, "Deor"! I had to translate that poem (along with "Wanderer" and "Seafarer") when I took Anglo-Saxon as a required course for my grad program. All of us in the class had t-shirts made with "Þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg" printed on them. It IS a comforting thought. (We usually translated it as, "That passed; so may this.")

BTW, I adored your MMSS New Year's icon.

[mothwing.livejournal.com]

Oh, great T-Shirt! We didn't do that one in our OE course, though we did traslate The Wanderer, The Seafarer. The latter is probably my favourite among them because it has the word "isigfeþera".

Thanks, glad you like it! It's all due to my Downton Abbey obsession, I took to playing around with the Minerva/Severus/Moon icon a lot while watching that show.

[ysilme]

I so envy you being able to read and understand that... *sigh* But I'm glad that it's encouraging you!

[mothwing.livejournal.com]

Well, I do have to look up a lot of the words after so many years, so it's not as though I can just read it and understand it, but I felt like translating something.

If you're interested, there is a modern and infinitely more intelligible version is in the description of the YT video:

Deor

Wayland knew the wanderer's fate:
that single-willed earl suffered agonies,
sorrow and longing the sole companions
of his ice-cold exile. Anxieties bit
when Nithhad put a knife to his hamstrings,
laid clever bonds on the better man.
That went by; this may too.

Beadohild mourned her murdered brothers:
but her own plight pained her more
-- her womb grew great with child.
When she knew that, she could never hold
steady before her wit what was to happen.
That went by; this may too.

All have heard of Hild's ravishing:
the Geat's lust was ungovernable,
their bitter love banished sleep.
That went by; this may too.

Thirty winters Theodric ruled
the Maering city; and many knew it.
That went by; this may too.

We all know that Earmonric
had a wolf's wit. Wide Gothland
lay in the grasp of that grim king,
and through it many sat, by sorrows surrounded,
foreseeing only sorrow; sighed for the downfall
and thorough overthrow of the slave-maker.
That went by; this may too.

When each gladness has gone, gathering sorrow
may cloud the brain; and in his breast a man
can not then see how his sorrows shall end.

But he may think how throughout this world
it is the way of God, who is wise, to deal
to the most part of men much favour
and a flourishing fame; to a few the sorrow-share.

Of myself in this regard I shall say this only:
that in the hall of the Heodenings I held long the bardship,
lived dear to my prince, Deor my name;
many winters I held this happy place
and my lord was kind. Then came Heorrenda,
whose poems were skilful; the lord of fighting-men
settled on him the estate bestowed once on me.
That went by; this may too.