Wolf-boy versus Grinder (the Bow Valley Beowulf)
tl;dr: I’ve translated the intro to Beowulf and the fight scene between Beowulf and Grendel into modern rural Western Canadian English, complete with lots of rude language. Why? Because I wanted to. Here it is.
Slightly longer introduction:
Some time ago, I was thinking about the famous opening of Beowulf (“Hwæt!”), and how it gets translated. And I considered that people are always advised to translate into their native idiom. Well, in my native idiom – the dirtbag vernacular of the Bow Valley in Alberta – it could be “Fucken A!” (also sometimes written “Fuckin’ eh!” but that’s an argument for another time).
So, for fun, starting with that and in that style, I translated the first 19 lines of Beowulf. I left it at that for some time, with the intention of translating more eventually. Well, I’ve now translated the fight scene between Beowulf and Grendel – or, in my translation, Wolf-boy and Grinder (see the end for notes on my translations of names). And, because it’s a gleefully crude translation, revelling in the potential of English strong language, I’m presenting it here on Strong Language.
Translations of Beowulf tend to be almost strainingly literary, sometimes to the point of prissiness. Well, fuck that. This is a violent, earthy story, told not in studied rhymes or in blank iambs but in the rough-and-tumble alliterative verse that was popular among the Anglo-Saxons of more than a millennium ago. And it’s clear that what the poet chose to say was importantly conditioned by the sound and impact of the verse. So I’ve taken that as a prime directive: translate as accurately as reasonably possible (with the help of a decent Old English dictionary and my own education in the language), adapt as necessary to modern English grammar and idiom, prioritize the mood, tone, and general thrust over the exact literal meaning, use wordplays as available, and above all, don’t fuck up the sound. (If you want a reasonably accurate – though starchy – literal rendition, interlinear with the original, Representative Poetry Online has one.)
Because we’re all fucking nerds here, I’m including the original text as well. But I can’t do it side-by-side – it would barely fit, and not at all on a phone screen – and I don’t want to do it as a strict interlinear, because that’s a nuisance and is too scholarly for this. Instead, I’m putting a block of the original in right-align (because our template doesn’t make block indent easy), followed by a block of the translation, and so on. If I have time soon, I’ll post recordings of these.
Let’s start with the opening!
Hwæt. We Gardena in geardagum,
þeodcyninga, þrym gefrunon,
hu ða æþelingas ellen fremedon.
Fucken A! We fighting Danes
have epic tales of kings and clans,
how righteous dudes did righteous deeds.
Oft Scyld Scefing sceaþena þreatum,
monegum mægþum, meodosetla ofteah,
egsode eorlas. Syððan ærest wearð
feasceaft funden, he þæs frofre gebad,
weox under wolcnum, weorðmyndum þah,
oðþæt him æghwylc þara ymbsittendra
ofer hronrade hyran scolde,
gomban gyldan. þæt wæs god cyning.
Shove’s son, Shield, shot shit, kicked ass,
busted benches in wicked bar brawls,
duked the earls. His early years
were poor as dirt, but he paid his dues,
made it big, beat the bank,
till he was the baddest man in town,
and even across the pond they paid
him tribute. That was one true king!
ðæm eafera wæs æfter cenned,
geong in geardum, þone god sende
folce to frofre; fyrenðearfe ongeat
þe hie ær drugon aldorlease
lange hwile. Him þæs liffrea,
wuldres wealdend, woroldare forgeaf;
Beowulf wæs breme blæd wide sprang,
Scyldes eafera Scedelandum in.
Then, of course, he had a kid,
hell of a guy, gift from God,
a helping hand in times of trouble
cuz they’d been wandering in the woods
for fucking ever. He fixed them up,
the wonder-boy, and won their bows.
Wolf-boy was famous: they knew his worth,
this son of Shield, across the North.
OK, let’s cut to the chase. I haven’t translated all of Beowulf yet, because that would take a lot of time (it’s 3182 lines) and I’ll only do it if someone actually wants to publish it. But the most famous part of the story is the fight between Grendel and Beowulf in the mead-hall, lines 702 to 863. Here it is – LFG!
Com on wanre niht
scriðan sceadugenga. Sceotend swæfon,
þa þæt hornreced healdan scoldon,
ealle buton anum. þæt wæs yldum cuþ
þæt hie ne moste, þa metod nolde,
se scynscaþa under sceadu bregdan;
At zero-dark-thirty
the slimebag slid up. Soldiers slept
instead of guarding the gabled pub—
well, except one. The whole world knew
the demon couldn’t drag him down
into the grave if God said no.
ac he wæccende wraþum on andan
bad bolgenmod beadwa geþinges.
ða com of more under misthleoþum
Grendel gongan, godes yrre bær;
mynte se manscaða manna cynnes
sumne besyrwan in sele þam hean.
But he was awake, and wicked angry,
pissed but patient to settle the score.
Then from the swamps under sweaty dark
Grinder goes, wearing God’s anger;
the bastard planned to break in and bag
some human bodies in the big house.
Wod under wolcnum to þæs þe he winreced,
goldsele gumena, gearwost wisse,
fættum fahne. Ne wæs þæt forma sið
þæt he Hroþgares ham gesohte;
næfre he on aldordagum ær ne siþðan
heardran hæle, healðegnas fand.
He slouched under the sky until he saw
the golden door gleaming in the dark,
full of fat. It wasn’t the first time
he’d raided Roger’s residence,
but never on any other night of his life
did he hit such a horde of healthy heroes.
Com þa to recede rinc siðian,
dreamum bedæled. Duru sona onarn,
fyrbendum fæst, syþðan he hire folmum æthran;
onbræd þa bealohydig, ða he gebolgen wæs,
recedes muþan. Raþe æfter þon
Buddy broke into the building then,
in a shit mood. He shoved the door
wide with his fist, fuck the iron bolts,
swung it back like a sonofabitch
and marched into the mouth of the mighty house.
on fagne flor feond treddode,
eode yrremod; him of eagum stod
ligge gelicost leoht unfæger.
Geseah he in recede rinca manige,
swefan sibbegedriht samod ætgædere,
magorinca heap. þa his mod ahlog;
He traipsed on the tiles—that shit’s not cheap—
loaded with loathing, and if looks could kill,
his eyes would blast the buggers with lightning.
He saw in the dark dozens of dudes,
brothers in arms, boys and buds,
fast asleep. Then the fucker chuckled
mynte þæt he gedælde, ærþon dæg cwome,
atol aglæca, anra gehwylces
lif wið lice, þa him alumpen wæs
wistfylle wen. Ne wæs þæt wyrd þa gen
þæt he ma moste manna cynnes
ðicgean ofer þa niht. þryðswyð beheold
mæg Higelaces, hu se manscaða
under færgripum gefaran wolde.
because he reckoned, before the rooster rose,
he’d rip each one—the rotten wretch—
life from limb. He was looking forward
to murder, that monster. But God almighty
knew he’d never break another body
after that soiree. Staring silently,
Booty-brain’s kinsman clocked the creep,
to see how he’d do in a dirty dust-up.
Ne þæt se aglæca yldan þohte,
ac he gefeng hraðe forman siðe
slæpendne rinc, slat unwearnum,
bat banlocan, blod edrum dranc,
synsnædum swealh; sona hæfde
unlyfigendes eal gefeormod,
fet ond folma. Forð near ætstop,
nam þa mid handa higeþihtigne
rinc on ræste, ræhte ongean
feond mid folme; he onfeng hraþe
inwitþancum ond wið earm gesæt.
The hellraiser hardly held back a moment,
but started by snatching a sleeping fighter
right away and ripped him wildly,
bit his bones and drank his blood,
gobbled him greedily—goddamn fast,
he crunched the corpse completely, clean
from feet to fingers. Following that,
he reached his hand and hit a hearty
resting soldier, so he started
to grab him—but guess who grabbed him first
all of a sudden and sat right up.
Sona þæt onfunde fyrena hyrde
þæt he ne mette middangeardes,
eorþan sceata, on elran men
mundgripe maran. He on mode wearð
forht on ferhðe; no þy ær fram meahte.
Hyge wæs him hinfus, wolde on heolster fleon,
secan deofla gedræg; ne wæs his drohtoð þær
swylce he on ealderdagum ær gemette.
Holy shit, that hell-hound thought,
I’ve never met, in this mad, mad world,
a goddamn grip on any guy
as fierce as this. Fuck, he was freaked,
and had to haul ass—like that would happen.
He badly wanted to bail, go back
to his demon hole; he had no hope
of getting what he got in his glory days.
Gemunde þa se goda, mæg Higelaces,
æfenspræce, uplang astod
ond him fæste wiðfeng; fingras burston.
Eoten wæs utweard; eorl furþur stop.
Mynte se mæra, þær he meahte swa,
widre gewindan ond on weg þanon
fleon on fenhopu; wiste his fingra geweald
on grames grapum. þæt wæs geocor sið
þæt se hearmscaþa to Heorute ateah.
Then Booty-brain’s boy brought back to mind
his banquet boast and bounced to his feet
and held him hard to break his hand.
The giant jumped away; our hero held close.
The evil shithead sure was eager
to fuck right off and run far away
back to the bog, but boy, his fingers
were’t going anywhere. God, what an idiot
he was to stage such a raid on Stag Hall.
Dryhtsele dynede; Denum eallum wearð,
ceasterbuendum, cenra gehwylcum,
eorlum ealuscerwen. Yrre wæron begen,
reþe renweardas. Reced hlynsode.
þa wæs wundor micel þæt se winsele
wiðhæfde heaþodeorum, þæt he on hrusan ne feol,
fæger foldbold; ac he þæs fæste wæs
innan ond utan irenbendum
searoþoncum besmiþod. þær fram sylle abeag
medubenc monig, mine gefræge,
golde geregnad, þær þa graman wunnon.
And now there was howling from hungover Danes,
dudes from the castle and kids from the clan,
lords no longer drunk. And look,
the watchmen were wild! What a racket!
You could hardly believe they built this house
strong enough to withstand the struggle,
so fucken fiece, but it held fast,
bound with iron bands both sides,
brilliantly made. But man, those benches
were smashing to splinters and flying like feathers
—even the gold ones, swear to God—
þæs ne wendon ær witan Scyldinga
þæt hit a mid gemete manna ænig,
betlic ond banfag, tobrecan meahte,
listum tolucan, nymþe liges fæþm
swulge on swaþule. Sweg up astag
niwe geneahhe; Norðdenum stod
atelic egesa, anra gehwylcum
þara þe of wealle wop gehyrdon,
gryreleoð galan godes ondsacan,
sigeleasne sang, sar wanigean
helle hæfton. Heold hine fæste
se þe manna wæs mægene strengest
on þæm dæge þysses lifes.
that battle was grim. But Shield’s guys built
the house so well no human would
ever blow its bone-covered beauty,
not even with trying, unless they torched it
in a ball of smoke. Now, boy, that sound
was deafening: the northern Danes
were shitting themselves, every last one,
when they heard the wailing through the walls,
the horrible howling of God’s biggest hater,
the loser’s lament, the sorry song
of hell’s worst hostage. Holding tight
was the man who was mightier than any other
walking the world on that one day.
Nolde eorla hleo ænige þinga
þone cwealmcuman cwicne forlætan,
ne his lifdagas leoda ænigum
nytte tealde. þær genehost brægd
eorl Beowulfes ealde lafe,
wolde freadrihtnes feorh ealgian,
mæres þeodnes, ðær hie meahton swa.
And the earls’ guardians were not gonna
let this burglar be among the breathing,
or let him end up anywhere other
than the shit heap. Now, unsheathing
well-used blades, Wolf-boy’s buds
went to defend their worthy dude,
their king of cool, if they ever could.
Hie þæt ne wiston, þa hie gewin drugon,
heardhicgende hildemecgas,
ond on healfa gehwone heawan þohton,
sawle secan, þone synscaðan
ænig ofer eorþan irenna cyst,
guðbilla nan, gretan nolde,
ac he sigewæpnum forsworen hæfde,
ecga gehwylcre. Scolde his aldorgedal
on ðæm dæge þysses lifes
earmlic wurðan, ond se ellorgast
on feonda geweald feor siðian.
They had no idea, as they headed to fight,
these fearless heroes and hearty henchmen,
circling the scum to slice him to ribbons
and send his soul seeping down to hell,
that even the best iron blade on earth
couldn’t do fuck-all to fight this foe,
since he had spells that kept him safe
from any edge. And yet the end
of all the hours he’d lived on earth
had to be horrible, and his hateful soul
was bound to the fire kept burning for fiends.
ða þæt onfunde se þe fela æror
modes myrðe manna cynne,
fyrene gefremede he wæs fag wið god,
þæt him se lichoma læstan nolde,
ac hine se modega mæg Hygelaces
hæfde be honda; wæs gehwæþer oðrum
lifigende lað. Licsar gebad
atol æglæca; him on eaxle wearð
syndolh sweotol, seonowe onsprungon,
burston banlocan. Beowulfe wearð
guðhreð gyfeþe; scolde Grendel þonan
feorhseoc fleon under fenhleoðu,
secean wynleas wic; wiste þe geornor
þæt his aldres wæs ende gegongen,
dogera dægrim. Denum eallum wearð
æfter þam wælræse willa gelumpen.
Fast enough this fuckhead found—
whose heart was twisted with hate for humans,
who committed crimes while cursing God—
that his muscles might not make it,
because Booty-brain’s brawny kinsman
had him in hand—and how they hated
each other’s guts. And now, goddamn,
he was gonna die. Ah, shit, his shoulder
was wrecked, alright. His sinews ripped,
his bone-locks blew. Wolf-boy beat
him gloriously. Grinder was gone
like a bat out of hell to his boggy hole,
his shitty shack; he sure enough knew
his ass was grass, his grave was dug,
his days were done. The Danes had all,
after that bloodbath, won the bonus.
Hæfde þa gefælsod se þe ær feorran com,
snotor ond swyðferhð, sele Hroðgares,
genered wið niðe; nihtweorce gefeh,
ellenmærþum. Hæfde Eastdenum
Geatmecga leod gilp gelæsted,
swylce oncyþðe ealle gebette,
inwidsorge, þe hie ær drugon
ond for þreanydum þolian scoldon,
torn unlytel. þæt wæs tacen sweotol,
syþðan hildedeor hond alegde,
earm ond eaxle þær wæs eal geador
Grendles grape under geapne hrof.
The welcome guest, gutsy and wise,
had purged the pest from Roger’s place
and left it like new. His wicked night’s work
was fit for fame. The East Danes found
the Goth made good on his glorious boast,
fixed the fuckery, healed the hurt,
the goddamn grief that had given them
for fucking ever fear and frustration,
pain a-plenty. And for proof,
their healthy hero gave them a hand
—and arm and shoulder, the whole shot,
Grinder’s grip, under the gabled roof.
ða wæs on morgen mine gefræge
ymb þa gifhealle guðrinc monig;
ferdon folctogan feorran ond nean
geond widwegas wundor sceawian,
laþes lastas. No his lifgedal
sarlic þuhte secga ænegum
þara þe tirleases trode sceawode,
hu he werigmod on weg þanon,
niða ofercumen, on nicera mere
fæge ond geflymed feorhlastas bær.
Many a morning, as I remember,
guys would gather in that good house,
folk-heroes welcomed from far and wide,
hitting the highways to see the hell-hound’s
farewell to arm. No one gave a fuck
for the sore loser—literally—at his end
as he shuffled, eating shit,
heavy-hearted, heading home,
badly beaten, bleeding out,
dragging red all down the road.
ðær wæs on blode brim weallende,
atol yða geswing eal gemenged
haton heolfre, heorodreore weol.
Deaðfæge deog, siððan dreama leas
in fenfreoðo feorh alegde,
hæþene sawle; þær him hel onfeng.
They followed and found a frothy pool,
a sickening surf sloshing around,
gross with gore, a bath of blood,
above the body of the joyless bastard
who breathed his last in that lousy bog,
whose heathen soul was hauled to hell.
þanon eft gewiton ealdgesiðas,
swylce geong manig of gomenwaþe
fram mere modge mearum ridan,
beornas on blancum. ðær wæs Beowulfes
mærðo mæned; monig oft gecwæð
þætte suð ne norð be sæm tweonum
ofer eormengrund oþer nænig
under swegles begong selra nære
rondhæbbendra, rices wyrðra.
Ne hie huru winedrihten wiht ne logon,
glædne Hroðgar, ac þæt wæs god cyning.
The comrades in arms then came along
with all the young dudes, a delightful day,
riding white horses all the way home
back from the bog. Their buddy Wolf-boy
they said was the best; they made this boast,
that from sea to sea and south to north
no one on earth had ever earned
such worthy glory, as God was their witness,
and frankly this fighter just fucking ruled.
Of course, that’s no shade shed on their chief,
the kindly Roger—he was a righteous king.
Notes on translation of names:
Beowulf = Wolf-boy. Wulf means ‘wolf’; the beo is less certain, could be ‘bee’, could be something else. Whatever. I like Wolf-boy.
Grendel = Grinder. There are various ideas about the origin of Grendel, and one of them is that it comes from ‘grinder’, which I like and think fits well here.
Heorot = Stag Hall. Literally heorot means ‘hart, stag’; I just added Hall to specify that it’s a place, as we would now. Sounds good too.
Hroþgar = Roger. The name Hroþgar literally means ‘glory-spear’ but it’s also the source of the name Roger, which I think is a good name and has some other meanings too.
Hygelac = Booty-brain. This one might piss some people off, but hyge means ‘mind, mood, thought, desire’ and lac means ‘gift, offering, sacrifice, booty’. This could have been Thought-gift but come on. We’re in fucking Exshaw, Alberta, Canada, here now.
Sceafa = Shove. You see this name in Scefing, which means ‘descendant of Sceafa’. Sceafa (which was said sort of like “shave-a”) probably meant ‘sheaf’, but I liked the sound of Shove and anyway, he’s not really important here.
Scyld = Shield. This is a literal translation, and the words are even pronounced almost identically (except the y in Scyld is like “ü”).
#AngloSaxon #Beowulf #OldEnglish #translation
![(long text warning)
The Tang dynasty poet Han Yu (768–824) wrote a well-known fable about Bole and qianlima.
Only when an era has a man like Po-le are there thousand-li horses. Thousand-li horses are common, but Po-les, on the other hand, are rare. Thus even though there may be famous horses, they only become abused under the hand of the man to whom they are enslaved, and they die in the stables—never having been recognized as thousand-li horses. Thousand-li horses at times consume a whole dan [approximately 60 kg] of grain in one feeding. If the one who feeds them does so without knowing they are capable of a thousand-li, then even though they may have the ability to go so far, they, having not eaten their fill, are lacking in strength, and their talent and beauty are not apparent. Moreover, if one wanted to rank them with regular horses, they would not make the grade. How then could they be asked to have the ability of going a thousand li? They are whipped inappropriately and fed in such a way that they cannot fulfil their innate talents. Yet when they cry out, they cannot be understood. With whip in hand the man approaches them and says, "There are not any good horses in the empire." Alas! Is it that there are really no good horses or is it perhaps that there is no one who really understands horses?](https://media.social.fedify.dev/media/0198e233-1202-7e16-8284-740f478448dc/thumbnail.webp)
![The first folio of the heroic epic poem Beowulf, written primarily in the West Saxon dialect of Old English. Part of the Cotton MS Vitellius A XV manuscript currently located within the British Library. This is a digital photographic copy of the folio.
Text shown according to https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43521/beowulf-old-english-version:
HWæT. WE GARDE na in geardagum, þeodcyninga, [129] þrym gefrunon, hu ða æþelingas ellen fremedon. Oft Scyld Scefing sceaþena þreatum,monegum mægþum, meodosetla ofteah, egsode eorlas. Syððan ærest wearð feasceaft funden, he þæs frofre gebad, weox under wolcnum, weorðmyndum þah, oðþæt him æghwylc þara ymbsittendra ofer hronrade hyran scolde, gomban gyldan. þæt wæs god cyning. ðæm eafera wæs æfter cenned, geong in geardum, þone god sende folce to frofre; fyrenðearfe on geat þe hie ær drugon aldorlease lange hwile. Him þæs liffrea, wuldres wealdend, woroldare forgeaf; Beowulf wæs breme blæd wide sprang, Scyldes eafera Scede landum in. Swa sceal geong guma gode gewyrcean, fromum feohgiftum on fæder.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beowulf#/media/File:Beowulf_Cotton_MS_Vitellius_A_XV_f._132r.jpg](https://media.social.fedify.dev/media/0197f3d3-9bf8-731c-b159-6114c2cd1f62/thumbnail.webp)
!["In this case of volcanic eruption, you will hear mermaids. Do not ignore the mermaids; they are there for your safety."
[screenshot of a post by] ProfJenniBarclay @VolcanoJenni:
Perils of Google Translate No. 44a. People seeking greater warning of volcanic eruption want sirens _not_ mermaids. (Spanish: Sirenas).](https://media.social.fedify.dev/media/0195a097-3d27-7d43-9284-bc29b4e00a53/thumbnail.webp)
