Ericgar I am, scop, a scholar bard,
born to thrall of words from womb.
From Heroes far past of the Mighty Geats
do I claim descent with head-bowed honor.
From even Beowulf of such keen sword
and far-off admiration earned,
his seed returning triumphant, with time,
back across the sailed sea and mossy fen
down to my sire Svenn, himself Shield-Man
of renown, brave and lineage-strong,
lost sooner to the tempestuous, life-greedy deep
on war-journey rightful to the south.
Before the taking of him, I, lamb-young,
upon his knee, in mead halls warm,
heeded many war sagas deftly versed
and thrilled at tale of victorious battles great,
won by powerful sinew wielding well-honed iron
and resolute heart, in fear of only dishonor.
To evil foe of shadow and cold mist
oft turned talk upon the middle night,
mead well-consumed and Maidens tended.
To Daemons fierce, and worse, whispered with dread,
and rumor of Berserkers blood-lusted,
lent I first my eager ear, later my quill.
Under eyes of Mother lone, at her bid,
with gladness of my duty surely,
script I studied, letter and rune,
artfully but slow at the strict hand
of elders lore-wise of war and ancient things.
Lute I mastered and drum, with ease,
to please and teach, the tales recounting,
traveling broad and distant, much at sea.
Peoples I met, of varied Clan and land.
Stories I told and also heard many, with devotion,
taking each to myself. Song and verse I made
anew from them, for sharing, in my way,
so I might praise all battle-traditions
and unfamiliar conducts of binder and bravery.
To manhood grown upon these labors,
I found my life-value, long-sought,
behind inked quill and in harp string’s trill.
Sword never drawn, shield ever idle,
I served my God and King by words,
music lively and lore truly told,
to keep alive the valiant dead
for all to honor and recall.
From Svealand of my birth I departed at length,
intent to make hearth in Bernicia far off,
seeking war-blade sharpness of my trade.
Long atop the waves to arrive,
finding yet soon a Master able,
Monk of God, letter-learned and story-nimble,
Bede named, dwelling at Northumbria.
He bade me lay the truth of Beowulf
to parchment long-enduring, so all
might admire the Geat King’s Gift to the Danes;
my kin long ago of mighty war-worth.
None so dear to the cry of my spirit
has been Bede, save my Honorable Sire
and my late-taken Mother, God resting,
sweet-voiced and springtime gentle,
who gifted me song and the truth desire
deep in my heart and lifting to my purpose.
And so I now abode, hard near the
urging friend-cause of the Great Tale’s scripting.
Fame-pleasure found at last,
my craft well serving and sharp edged,
still I am to travel, and to sing, Lo!
Of deeds long past and Heroes adored.