The sources
The Old English Rune Poem
The manuscript that held this poem, Cotton MS Otho B.x, perished in the fire of 1731. The text we have comes from George Hickes, who printed it in his Linguarum Veterum Septentrionalium Thesaurus in 1705, twenty-six years before the fire. That printed page is now the only witness. Every modern edition, Dickins and Halsall included, is an edition of Hickes rather than of the manuscript.
The manuscript was late and the poem is not. On linguistic grounds Dickins puts the manuscript no earlier than the eleventh century, and the poem itself pre-Alfredian at least, because it does not contain a single definite article. One missing word moves the poem back two centuries. The conventional dating is the tenth century, and this site follows Dickins in labelling the stanzas ninth century or earlier.
Hickes printed variant rune forms alongside the poem, and Hempl showed they came from a different manuscript, Domitian A.ix. That is where the wrong names come from: in the 1705 edition Day is labelled Man and Man is labelled Day. The poem never names its own runes, so every name above every stanza in every edition was put there by a later hand.
Twenty-nine stanzas of two to five lines. Seven runes have no Norse stanza at all, so for those seven this poem is the only old source that speaks.
The poem, complete
29 stanzas, in the order of the manuscript.
Feoh byþ frofur fira gehwylcum;
sceal ðeah manna gehwylc miclun hyt dælan
gif he wile for drihtne domes hleotan.
Wealth comforts everyone alive.
Still, each man has to hand it out freely
if he wants a good name before the Lord.
Ur byþ anmod ond oferhyrned,
felafrecne deor, feohteþ mid hornum
mære morstapa; þæt is modig wuht.
The aurochs is of one mind, and hugely horned,
a fierce beast, it fights with its horns,
a famous walker of the moors. That is a brave creature.
Ðorn byþ ðearle scearp, ðegna gehwylcum
anfeng ys yfyl, ungemetum reþe
manna gehwylcum, ðe him mid resteð.
The thorn is very sharp. For any man
it is evil to grasp, and cruel beyond measure
to anyone who rests among them.
Os byþ ordfruma ælcre spræce,
wisdomes wraþu ond witena frofur
and eorla gehwam eadnys and tohiht.
The mouth is where all speech begins,
the prop of wisdom, the comfort of those who know,
and to everyone a blessing and something to hope for.
Rad byþ on recyde rinca gehwylcum
sefte ond swiþhwæt, ðamðe sitteþ on ufan
meare mægenheardum ofer milpaþas.
Riding seems easy to every man indoors,
and very bold to the one who sits above
a strong horse on the long roads.
Cen byþ cwicera gehwam, cuþ on fyre
blac ond beorhtlic, byrneþ oftust
ðær hi æþelingas inne restaþ.
Everyone alive knows the torch by its fire,
pale and bright. It burns most often
where the highborn are resting indoors.
Gyfu gumena byþ gleng and herenys,
wraþu and wyrþscype and wræcna gehwam
ar and ætwist, ðe byþ oþra leas.
Giving brings men grace and honour,
support and worth, and to every outcast
it is mercy and sustenance, when he has nothing else.
Wenne bruceþ, ðe can weana lyt
sares and sorge and him sylfa hæfþ
blæd and blysse and eac byrga geniht.
Joy belongs to the one who knows little of woe,
of pain and sorrow, and who has for himself
prosperity and gladness, and a house that is enough.
Hægl byþ hwitust corna; hwyrft hit of heofones lyfte,
wealcaþ hit windes scura; weorþeþ hit to wætere syððan.
No grain falls whiter than hail. It comes turning out of the high air,
the wind rolls it about, and then it becomes water.
Nyd byþ nearu on breostan; weorþeþ hi þeah oft niþa bearnum
to helpe and to hæle gehwæþre, gif hi his hlystaþ æror.
Need is tight on the chest. Yet often it turns out for the children of men
to be help and healing both, if they listen to it in time.
Is byþ oferceald, ungemetum slidor,
glisnaþ glæshluttur gimmum gelicust,
flor forste geworuht, fæger ansyne.
Ice is too cold and slippery past all measure.
It glitters clear as glass, most like a jewel.
It is a floor the frost made, and lovely to look at.
Ger byþ gumena hiht, ðonne God læteþ,
halig heofones cyning, hrusan syllan
beorhte bleda beornum ond ðearfum.
A good year is what men hope for, when God,
heaven’s holy king, lets the ground give up
its bright fruits to the well-off and the needy.
Eoh byþ utan unsmeþe treow,
heard hrusan fæst, hyrde fyres,
wyrtrumun underwreþyd, wyn on eþle.
The yew is a rough tree on the outside,
hard, held fast in the earth, keeper of fire,
propped up by its roots, a joy on the land.
Peorð byþ symble plega and hlehter
wlancum [on middum], ðar wigan sittaþ
on beorsele bliþe ætsomne.
Peorð is always play and laughter
among the proud, where warriors sit
in the beer-hall, happy together.
Eolh-secg eard hæfþ oftust on fenne
wexeð on wature, wundaþ grimme,
blode breneð beorna gehwylcne
ðe him ænigne onfeng gedeþ.
The elk-sedge is found most often in the fen.
It grows up out of the water and wounds badly,
marking with blood every man
who takes hold of it.
Sigel semannum symble biþ on hihte,
ðonne hi hine feriaþ ofer fisces beþ,
oþ hi brimhengest bringeþ to lande.
The sun is always a hope to seafarers,
when they carry themselves out over the fish’s bath,
until the sea-horse brings them to land.
Tir biþ tacna sum, healdeð trywa wel
wiþ æþelingas; a biþ on færylde
ofer nihta genipu, næfre swiceþ.
Tir is one of the signs. It keeps its word
to princes. It is always travelling
over the mist of nights, and it never deceives you.
Beorc byþ bleda leas, bereþ efne swa ðeah
tanas butan tudder, biþ on telgum wlitig,
heah on helme hrysted fægere,
geloden leafum, lyfte getenge.
The poplar bears no fruit. Even so it puts out
shoots without seed. It is lovely in its branches,
high in its crown and finely decked,
loaded with leaves, and it reaches the sky.
Eh byþ for eorlum æþelinga wyn,
hors hofum wlanc, ðær him hæleþ ymb[e]
welege on wicgum wrixlaþ spræce
and biþ unstyllum æfre frofur.
The horse is the joy of princes before warriors,
a steed proud in its hooves, where men around it,
wealthy men on horseback, trade words about it.
And to the restless it is always a comfort.
Man byþ on myrgþe his magan leof:
sceal þeah anra gehwylc oðrum swican,
forðam drihten wyle dome sine
þæt earme flæsc eorþan betæcan.
A man in his gladness is dear to his kin.
Yet each of them has to fail the other,
because it is the Lord’s judgement
to give that poor flesh over to the ground.
Lagu byþ leodum langsum geþuht,
gif hi sculun neþan on nacan tealtum
and hi sæyþa swyþe bregaþ
and se brimhengest bridles ne gym[eð].
Water seems endless to people,
if they have to put out in an unsteady boat,
and the sea waves frighten them badly,
and the sea-horse pays no heed to its bridle.
Ing wæs ærest mid East-Denum
gesewen secgun, oþ he siððan est
ofer wæg gewat; wæn æfter ran;
ðus Heardingas ðone hæle nemdun.
The East Danes were the first to lay eyes on Ing.
Then he went away east over the wave,
and his wagon ran after him.
So the Heardingas gave the hero his name.
Eþel byþ oferleof æghwylcum men,
gif he mot ðær rihtes and gerysena on
brucan on bolde bleadum oftast.
Home is dear past all measure to anyone,
if he may have there what is right and fitting,
under his own roof, and most often in plenty.
Dæg byþ drihtnes sond, deore mannum,
mære metodes leoht, myrgþ and tohiht
eadgum and earmum, eallum brice.
Day is a sending from the Lord, dear to people,
the great light of the Maker, joy and hope
to the rich and to the poor, and of use to all.
Ac byþ on eorþan elda bearnum
flæsces fodor, fereþ gelome
ofer ganotes bæþ; garsecg fandaþ
hwæþer ac hæbbe æþele treowe.
The oak on the earth, for the children of men,
is fodder that turns into flesh. It goes out often
over the gannet’s bath, and the open sea asks
whether the oak holds noble faith.
Æsc biþ oferheah, eldum dyre
stiþ on staþule, stede rihte hylt,
ðeah him feohtan on firas monige.
The ash stands over-tall, and men hold it dear.
Firm on its root, it keeps its place,
though many a man comes at it fighting.
Yr byþ æþelinga and eorla gehwæs
wyn and wyrþmynd, byþ on wicge fæger,
fæstlic on færelde, fyrdgeatewa sum.
Yr is a joy and a mark of honour to princes
and to every man of rank. It sits well on a horse,
steady on the road, one piece of war-gear among others.
What the name means is disputed. Dickins says so plainly: the runic passages in Cynewulf give no help, and the readings offered since have not settled it. The stanza describes a thing carried on horseback and counted among war-gear, and stops there. Line 86 is Dickins mending Hickes, who printed fyrdgeacewa.
Iar byþ eafix and ðeah a bruceþ
fodres on foldan, hafaþ fægerne eard
wætre beworpen, ðær he wynnum leofaþ.
Iar is a river fish, and even so it takes
its food on dry land. Its home is a good one, ringed with water,
and there it lives happily.
No such word as iar or ior exists outside the runic alphabets. Dickins says it in one line. What the stanza describes is simply some creature at home in water and fed on land. Grimm read it as the eel, and a lizard or a newt would fit the same words. The letter itself is old and travelled, common in Scandinavian inscriptions from the seventh century on. Hickes printed eafixa, a genitive with nothing to hang on, and Dickins drops the final a after Rieger.
Ear byþ egle eorla gehwylcun,
ðonn[e] fæstlice flæsc onginneþ,
hraw colian, hrusan ceosan
blac to gebeddan; bleda gedreosaþ,
wynna gewitaþ, wera geswicaþ.
Ear is loathsome to every man,
when the flesh begins in earnest
to cool, and the body takes the ground
for its pale bedfellow. The crops fall,
the joys go, and the promises men made break.
The stanza never says grave. It says what happens to the flesh. Grave is Grein's reading: he compared the Old Norse aurr, loam or clay, and took the ground from there, and the name itself turns up nowhere outside the rune-rows. The bracket in line 91 is Dickins restoring a letter Hickes did not print.
Original after Dickins 1915. Translated here from the originals.