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Ic þis giedd wrece          bi me ful geomorre,
minre sylfre sið.    Ic þæt secgan mæg,
hwæt ic yrmþa gebad,     siþþan ic up weox,
niwes oþþe ealdes,         no ma þonne nu.

A ic wite wonn          minra wræcsiþa.
Ærest min hlaford gewat          heonan of leodum
ofer yþa gelac;     hæfde ic uhtceare
hwær min leodfruma          londes wære.
Ða ic me feran gewat          folgað secan,

wineleas wræcca,          for minre weaþearfe,
ongunnon þæt þæs      monnes magas hycgan
þurh dyrne geþoht,      þæt hy todælden unc,
þæt wit gewidost          in woruldrice
lifdon laðlicost,          ond mec longade.

Het mec hlaford min          herheard niman,
ahte ic leofra lyt          on þissum londstede,
holdra freonda.          For þon is min hyge geomor.
Ða ic me ful gemæcne          monnan funde,
heardsæligne,           hygegeomorne,

mod miþendne,          morþor hycgendne.
bliþe gebæro.      Ful oft wit beotedan
þæt unc ne gedælde          nemne deað ana
owiht elles;          eft is þæt onhworfen,
is nu swa hit        næfre wære,

freondscipe uncer.        Sceal ic feor ge neah
mines felaleofan          fæhðu dreogan.
Heht mec mon wunian          on wuda bearwe,
under actreo          in þam eorðscræfe.
Eald is þes eorðsele,          eal ic eom oflongad,

sindon dena dimme,          duna uphea,
bitre burgtunas,          brerum beweaxne,
wic wynna leas.          Ful oft mec her wraþe begeat
fromsiþ frean.          Frynd sind on eorþan,
leofe lifgende,          leger weardiað,

þonne ic on uhtan          ana gonge
under actreo          geond þas eorðscrafu.
Þær ic sittan mot          sumorlangne dæg,
Þær ic wepan mæg          mine wræcsiþas,
earfoþa fela;          forþon ic æfre ne mæg

þære modceare          minre gerestan,
ne ealles þæs longaþes          þe mec on þissum life begeat.
A scyle geong mon          wesan geomormod,
heard heortan geþoht,          swylce habban sceal
bliþe gebæro,          eac þon breostceare,

sinsorgna gedreag,          sy æt him sylfum gelong
eal his worulde wyn,          sy ful wide fah
feorres folclondes,          þæt min freond siteð
under stanhliþe          storme behrimed,
wine werigmod,          wætre beflowen

on dreorsele,         dreogeð se min wine
micle modceare;          he gemon to oft
wynlicran wic.          Wa bið þam þe sceal
of langoþe          leofes abidan.

Ærest min hlaford gewat | heonan of leodum / ofer yþa gelac...

by Katie West (but Matt took this)

The Wife’s Lament

I recite this fully sad song of myself,
my own experience. I can say that,
what I endured of hardships, since I grew up,
new or old, were never more than now.
Ever I suffered the torment of exile.

First my lord departed hence from the people,
over the tumult of the waves; I had dawn-cares:
where may my prince be in the land?
When I went, departed to seek the retinue,
a friendless wanderer, for my necessary woe,
this one’s kin began to plan,
through secret thought, that they should separate us,
that we most widely in the world-kingdom
will live most wretchedly- and me afflicted with longing.

My lord commanded me to dwell in a grove;
I have few of beloved ones in this landstead,
few of loyal friends; for this is my soul sad.
When I found for me a fully suitable man,
ill-fated, mind-sad,
concealing his spirit, violence plotted
with a blithe demeanour. Fully often we vowed
that we would never separate- ought else save
death alone. Afterwards is that changed:
it is now as if it never were,
our friendship. I must -far or near-
endure the enmity of my dearly-loved.

I am commanded by one to dwell in a wooded grove,
under an oak-tree in this earth-cave.
Old is this earth-hall, I am all seized with longing.
Dim are the dales, high the hills,
bitter cities overgrown by briars,
the dwelling joyless. Fully often the lord’s departure
cruelly takes hold of me. friends are on earth,
living lovers occupy their bed,
when I, alone, wander in the pre-dawn
under an oak-tree, through these earth-caves.

There I may sit the summer-long day;
There I can weep for my miseries,
many of hardships; thus I can never
ease my heart-care there,
nor all this longing which this life bequeathed unto me.

Ever must a young one be sad of mood,
hard of heart in thought; thus he shall have
a blithe demeanour and also breast-cares,
endure constant sorrow; let him be dependent on himself
for all his worldly joy, be very widely outcast
far from his folk’s land, so that my friend sits
under a stormy stone-cliff, frost-covered,
my lord weary in mind, drenched by water
in a desolate hall; he suffers, my friend,
with great heart-grief; he remembers too often
a more delightful abode. Woe be to him who shall
await for long the beloved.

Read the rest of this entry »

I wrote a long post here, deliberately prolonged and ready for the posting on September Eleven. I counted the dead in the Twin Towers, and contrasted it with the numbers killed by American and Coalition troops in the wars the United States is waging, and noted how larger numbers have died and those days of remembrance are not pointedly and constantly waved in the face of the world.

I deleted it. I am tired of discussion of this day, tired of the hysteria the Right whips into his mobs, frothy-mouthed about vengeance and bloodshed. Tired of American jingoism. People died. It was nine years ago. America has killed a lot more, since. fin

Wulf ond Eadwacer

Leodum is minum swylce him mon lac gife.
Willað hy hine aþecgan, gif he on þreat cymeð?
Ungelic is us.

Wulf is on iege, ic on oþerre.
Fæst is þæt eglond, fenne biworpen.
Sindon wælreowe weras þær on ige.
Willað hy hine aþecgan, gif he on þreat cymeð?
Ungelice is us.

Wulfes ic mines widlastum wenum dogode,
þonne hit wæs renig weder ond ic reotugu sæt,
þonne mec se beaducafa bogum bilegde,
wæs me wyn to þon, wæs me hwæþre eac lað.
Wulf, min Wulf, wena me þine
seoce gedydon, þine seldcymas,
murnende mod, nales meteliste.

Gehyrest þu, Eadwacer? Uncerne earne hwelp
bireð Wulf to wuda.
þæt mon eaþe tosliteð þætte næfre gesomnad wæs,
uncer giedd geador.

...ond ic reotugu sæt
And in the quiet moments, I try not to think of what could have been.
AllyJade

Wulf and Eadwacer

For my people, it is as if one may give them a gift-
Will they feast him if he comes in force?
It is different, for us.

Wulf is on an isle, I on another.
Fast is that island, surrounded by fens.
There are bloodthirsty men on the isle;
will they feed on him if he comes in force?
It is different, for us.

I was hounded by far-tracked hopes for my Wulf;
when it was rainy weather and I, tearful, sat;
when the battle-bold one embraced me in his paws-
that was a pleasure to me, yet it was also loathsome.
Wulf! my Wulf! my hopes for you
sickened me, your seldom-comings,
a mourning heart- not at all a lack of meat.

Do you hear, Eadwacer? Our wretched whelp,
the Wulf bears it to the woods.
That is easily torn apart, what was never united:
the song of us two together.

Read the rest of this entry »

It is difficult to write on the topic of my thesis. The political history of 7thC northern Britain is complicated, with threads of alliances marking the map in my mind’s-eye like one of those webs spiders spin when on hallucinogens. Whenever I try and explain one piece of the puzzle, I find I must explain some half a dozen other items first- but in order to explain those, I must start with the first.

The human mind evolved to eat gazelle and flee lions, not think about things. Sheesh. This post is therefore awfully rough, and kept briefer than I’d like, stripped of my precious footnoes and the bibliography left to squint in the sunlight without any historiography to give the nuance. Questions would be helpful.

It has been some time since I wrote, so as a reminder: my thesis on the raid sent in 684 by Ecgfrith of Northumbria to Ireland- specifically, his soldiers raided the area called Mag Breg, a túath within the territories of the Southern Úi Néill. The month appears to have been June. The leader of the army/raiding party/gang of violent thugs was a chap called Berht whom I have mentioned previously. This raid is fascinating, not least because it is the first such recorded attack on Hibernia prior to Strongbow, but because we don’t know why. Bede just says that it was unprovoked and the Irish never did nothin’ to nobody.

A few scholars seem to suspect Ecgfrith’s successor and older half-brother Aldfrith. Certainly he had very close ties with Ireland -son of an Irish princess- and one could, as some have, make an argument that he was plotting against Ecgfrith and so the king sent troops into Ireland to take captives for use as hostages. Certainly the swift movement of Aldfrith from Iona to Northumbria to be crowned, after Ecgfrith’s death in (modern) Scotland is supicious.

The problem with this hypothesis lies in Aldfrith’s supposed connection to the area laid waste by the English swords. Mag Bega lay within the overlordship of the Southern Úi Néill, a group of people who claimed descended from Nial of the Nine Hostages. Aldfrith’s mother’s people, on the other hand, were among the Northern Úi Néill. Specifically, theCenél nEógain.

While in exile amongst the Irish, the father of Ecgfrith and Aldfrith, Oswiu (the famous ‘Synod of Whitby’ Oswiu) fathered a son on a daughter of the Northern Úi Néill king, Colmán Rimíd. The specific evidence for this must be considered very carefully, as the genealogies of royal families are suspect to tampering and this is particularly true when the king in question (i.e., Aldfrith) is famous. The specific genealogy in question reads as follows:

Cōic meic Bāetāin meic Muirchertaich .i. Fergus a quo Clann Fergusa, Forannān a quo Hūi Fairennāin, A[i]lill pater Cind-fāelad, Māel-huma in rīgfēinnid. Colmān Rīmid athair Fīna, māthair īside Flaind Fina meic Ossu regis Saxonum.

[Five sons of Báetán son of Muichertach; that is Fergus from whom [comes] Clann Fhergusa; Forannán from whom [comes] the Uí Fhorannáin; Ailill the father of Cenn Fáelad; Máel Umai rígféinnid. Colmán Rimíd the father of Fína, the mother of Flann Fína son of Ossu king of the Saxons.]1

Flann Fína is the Irish name for Aldfrith, and the two are specifically conflated in his obit in the Annals of Tigernach:

Altfrith mac Ossa .i. Fland Fína la Gaedhelu, echnaid, rex Saxonum.

[Aldfrith, son of Oswiu, called Fland Fína by the Gaels, a wise man, king of the Saxons.]2

Ossu is the Irish form of Oswiu, and can be verified by comparing Bede and the Annals of Ulster. Muirchertach can be traced back to the founder of the Cenél nEógain, Eógan, and thus to ancestor of the Uí Néill, Nial Noígiallach.5 While there is uncertainty about which túath Oswiu dwelled amongst while in exile, and therefore the specific political circumstances which led to the fathering of Aldfrith, this discussion is quite complicated enough. We can say with certainty that Aldfrith is descended on his mother’s side from a túath of the Northern Uí Néill, specifically the Cenél nEógain. Aldfrith therefore has close ties with the Northern Uí Néill.

Early Christian Ireland AD 400-700.

Taken from John Haywood, Atlas of the Celtic World, (Thames & Hudson: London, 2001), p.97.

It is tempting to conflate the Northern and Southern Uí Néill, but the two are titles claimed by overlordships. Connacht and Airgalla were also provincial overlordships, and one could not make this attempt to tie Aldfrith to them.

Túatha even within kingdoms were not completely unified, as the Cenél nEógain fought against their own cousins in the Northern Uí Néill during battle of Mag Roth (637). While there were alliances among the Uí Néill and people in (what is now) Scotland, all of these alliances -broken and otherwise- are among túatha of the Northern Uí Néill, not the Southern. Any connection between Aldfrith and the Irish of Scotland and Ireland does not lead us inevitably to Mag Breg.

Read the rest of this entry »

Three months, or thereabouts, since last I wrote here. Even then, my last few weeks of posts were late, or incoherent, scrabbling desperately at the edges of reason for something interesting to say. I wish I could I say I were busy scribing at my thesis, or working on translations, or doing any of the myriad other things I have had to do. I wish I could.

From here on out we are Trying Again, during the last few weeks of my undergraduate career. Supervisor Doctor Dan issued the nearest thing he has to an ultimatem, declaring that I would write something each day, no matter how sad or pathetic I felt it was. No matter if I felt I wasn’t ready to commit yet- that the point of a thesis is the process, and that was how these things worked. I am… less than optimistic, but here we go!

Ergo, the Medievalism Rampart astride the heraldry of Sir Monday shall -henceforth- be rambling about either my thesis or whatever classwork projects I am engaged upon. It is to be open that by transferring thoughts from my brain onto blog it will becoming easier to write something semi-coherent. This semi-coherent mass may then be thrust upon Doctor Dan, as my writer-brain huddles away, hiding his head in shame.

Something like that. ONWARD!

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