Neb is min niþerweard; neol ic fere
ond be grunde græfe, geonge swa me wisað
har holtes feond, ond hlaford min
woh færeð weard æt steorte,
5 wrigaþ on wonge, wegeð mec on þyð,
saweþ on swæð min. Ic snyþige forð,
brungen of bearwe, bunden cræfte,
wegen on wægne, hæbbe wundra fela;
me biþ gongendre grene on healfe
10 ond min swæð sweotol sweart on oþre.
Me þurh hrycg wrecen hongaþ under
an orþoncpil, oþer on heafde,
fæst ond forðweard. Fealleþ on sidan
þæt ic toþum tere, gif me teala þenaþ
15 hindeweardre, þæt biþ hlaford min.
My nose is turned downward; I travel flat
and carve out the ground, going as the old foe
of the forest directs me, and my lord
travels crooked, a watchman at my tail,
5 moves over the plain, moves me and presses,
sows in my path. I go nose forwards,
brought from the wood, skillfully bound,
borne on a wagon, I have many marvels;
travelling, there is green on one side of me
10 and my path is clear, black on the other.
Driven through my back, there hangs underneath
a skillful spear, another on my head,
firm and forward-facing. To the side falls
what I tear with my teeth, if he serves me rightly
15 from behind, he who is my lord.
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