Forgotten Ground Regained
The Battle of Brunanburh: A Verse Translation
In this year:Æthelstan, monarch · and master of nobles,Ring-giver of warriors, with his brother,Edmund Ætheling, age-long gloryGarnered by strife · of swords’ bladesNear Brunanburh. Battling the shield-wall,Hewing linden battle-shields · by the strength of swords,These sons of Edward — as suited their descentFrom ancestors well-born — warred oftenWith dread enemies; defending land,Treasure and family. Their foemen perished;The Scots flotilla, the ship-floatersFated to die, fell. Fields flowedWith retainers’ blood. The rising son,In morning grandeur, that glorious star,God’s great candle, glided over the groundOf each battling host · until that brilliant creationSank to its western seat, sealing in deathThe spears’ prey — the sons of the north,Betrayed by shields; and the Scots also,Sated with battle. The Saxon swordsmenPursued with deadly purpose · the people of the North,Hewing fearfully · the fleeing foemenWith merciless blades.· The Mercian heroesRefused not — nay, not a one—The hard hand-play · with heathen warriorsUntil great Anlaf · sought the sea-surges,Sought his homeland, sheltered in his ship’s bosom,Fearful longer to fight. Five young kingsRemained on the battlefield, resting in honorable death,Sleeping, by swords slain; seven also succumbed,Earls of Anlaf; and of the armies, innumerableVikings and Scots. The sovereign of the NorthFled the field, forced to his shipsBy fear and by necessity — by fear of Wessex warriors.The ships were launched, sustaining the kingOn the dusky stream, saving his disgraced life.Thus the old campaigner · came defeatedTo his northern country, cold Constantine,The ancient warrior, with exultation stifled,Mindful of the Wessex blades; bereft of kinsman,Deprived of companions · dead on the battlefieldBereaved by the strife; his son abandonedOn the field of death, destroyed and twistedIn youth by conflict. Yea, he boasted not,The grizzle-haired warrior, of warfare worthy;The malevolent one, more wicked than Anlaf.With his army remnant · repented he with reasonThat his deeds of war · were not the betterOn the battlefield — in banners’ collision,In the meeting of spears, in the struggle of men,In the weapon-exchange, which on the battlefieldHe willingly shared · with the sons of Edward.
The Northmen departed · in nailed ships,The dejected survivors · on Dinges Mere,Riding the watery deeps, returning to Dublin;Retreating to Ireland · ashamed in spirit.Likewise the brothers, both together,King and Prince — war-exulting warriors—Sought their fatherland, far-flung Wessex.There remained but the dead, and the dark-coated onesWho devour the corpses: the coal-black raven,The horn-beaked owl, the baleful eagle,Dusky-coated one, carrion-eater,Greedy war-hawk; and that gray brute,The wolf of the forest. Such satiety of slaughterBy sword’s stroke · saw this islandNever, say books · and sages’ tales,Since from the East · Saxons and AnglesCame over sea-surges, seeking Britain—Gallant war-smiths · and worthy earlsWho overcame the Celts · and conquered a homeland.
NOTE: In the year 936, Olaf (Anlaf), son of Guthfrith of Dublin, sailed to England, joining forces with Constantine, King of the Scots and Strathclyde, to invade England. Constantine, after having sworn allegiance to Athelstan, allied himself with the Danes of Ireland. The invading army was met by Athelstan and his brother Edward and an army from Mercia and Wessex. The encounter resulted in the death of five kings and seven earls of Ireland, and a son of the King of the Scots. The northern kings retreated, reaching their own lands with considerable difficulty. Anlaf returned to Ireland.
The poem is preserved in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicles
Copyright © Michael R. Collings, 1969.