On frymðe wæs Word, and þæt Word wæs mid Gode, and God wæs þæt Word. þæt wæs on fruman mid Gode. Ealle þing wæron geworhte ðurh hyne; and nan þing næs geworht butan him. þæt wæs lif þe on him geworht wæs; and þæt lif wæs manna leoht. And þæt leoht lyht on ðystrum; and þystro þæt ne genamon.2.
Feower Axunge:3.
For hwi is þeos niht ungelic eallum oþrum nihtum?
On eallum oþrum nihtum we etað hlaf swa gehafene swa þeorfne.
On þisse nihte, þeorfne anan.
For hwi is þeos niht ungelic eallum oþrum nihtum?
On eallum oþrum nihtum we etað mislice wyrta.
On þisse nihte, bitre wyrta anan.
For hwi is þeos niht ungelic eallum oþrum nihtum?
On eallum oþrum nihtum ne dyppað we swa oft swa anes.
On þisse nihte, we dyppað tuwa.
For hwi is þeos niht ungelic eallum oþrum nihtum?
On eallum oþrum nihtum we etað swa sittende swa hleoniende.
On þisse nihte, ealle we hleoniað.
[Variant:For hwi is þeos niht ungelic eallum oþrum nihtum?
On eallum oþrum nihtum we eteð on gewunelicre wisan.
On þisse nihte, we etað on ænlicre wisan.]
Hey, it makes me happy.
Hwæt! ær þissum dæge seofon wintra and hundeahtig, ure ealdfaederas acennodon on þissum lande niw rice, geacnod on freodome and gegiefen to þæm geþohte, þæt ealle menn beoð gelice gesceapen. Nu feohtað we micel gewinn innan urum lande, to afandianne hwæther þæt rice oþþe ænig oðer rice swa geacnod, swa gegiefen, lange þolian mæg. Standaþ we on micelre waelstowe þære guþe. Cumene sind we to giefanne sumne dæl þære stowe to endgereste þame þe her crungon þæt þæt rice lifige. Swiðe geriht is þæt we swa don, and gemæt. Ac on widran getacnunge, we giefan ne magon—we bletsian ne magon—we halgian ne magon—þas hruse. þa felamodigan menn, cwice and deade, þa þe her wunnon, þa hie gehalgodon ofergende feor urne unspedigan onwald to giefanne and to nimanne. Lyt maeg seo woruld oncnawan ne lange gemunan þætte man her sprecað, ac næfre sceal heo forgietan þætte hie her dydon. We sculon lifgendan us swiþor to þæm ungefyldan geweorce getreowsian, þe þa menn þe her gefuhton swa indryhtenlice oð þis gefyrþrodon. We sculon us swiþor to þæm micelan gedeorfe getreowsian, þe toforan us giet stent: þæt fram þissum gerisenlicum deadum we nimen geacnode fæst-hydignesse to þæm intingan for þæm hie hiere læst full gemet fæst-hydignesse geafon; þæt we her aeþillice hycgen, þæt þissa deadra deað ne sceal unnyt wesan—þæt þis folc, under Gode, sceal niwe acennednesse freodomes habban—and þæt þes þeodscipe, for þæm folce, of þæm folce, and þurh þearfe þæs folces, ne sceal fram þære eorþan abreoþan.
More fun: the Anglo-Saxon Chronicles are still ongoing.Also: SFP just chimed in on the comment thread with this:
þys is efne to secgenne"I wish I could take credit for it," SFP added, "but it's from Hwæt! A Little Old English Anthology of American Modernist Poetry."
Ic æt
þa pluman
þe wæron
þære iscieste
and þeForgief me
þu eallmæst cuþice
hordodest
for morgenmete
hie wæron smæcclice
swa swete
and swa cealde
Modernist poetry, Anglo-Saxon, makes sense to me. I keep meaning to write about that edition I have of Mayakovsky translated into Lallans/Braid Scots. It works too.