Riddle 20

All together all the young dudes

sidle up in saddle to the strand,

all sixty of them sally forth;

some eleven of these ballers

borne on beauteous bronco-back —

four of them real shiners.

Seemed like F Troop found no ford

couldn’t file over the flood-way,

figured out that shit was much too deep,

like they say, “Terribly tossed of tide” —

headlands too heady, hove of holm

much too much too much.

Fixing to mount up at that moment,

men on the wagon train, their horses too,

piling them on under pole.

When that steed had shouldered

both prince & pony, 

gar-giddy the lot of ‘em,

across the guttering grant,

cart before the horse, onto the shore.

And so what the ox to lug her,

what budge of drudge,

what cart-way courser —

in no way swimming over stream,

no waddling on wave-bed,

host in high spirits beneath,

no wracking the waters,

no bouncing down from breeze,

no twisting toward the back.

All that even so — still it lugged

bubbas across the bubbling,

their horses every one,

from the hefty headlands,

so that they strutted up here

like they owned the place,

warriors from over the waters

and their warhorses all neat & tidy.

Riddle 20

Ætsomne cwom   LX monna

to wǣg-stæþe   wicgum rīdan;

hæfdon XI   ēored-mæcgas

frīd-hengestas,   IIII scēamas.

Ne meahton mago-rincas   ofer mere fēolan,

swā hī fundedon,   ac wæs flōd tō dēop,

atol ȳþa geþræc,   ōfras hēa,

strēamas stronge.   Ongunnon stīgan þā

on wægn weras   ond hyra wicg somod

hlodan under hrunge;   þā þā hors ōðbær

eh ond eorlas,   æscum dealle,

ofer wætres byht   wægn tō lande,

swā hine oxa ne tēah   ne esna mægen

ne fæt-hengest,   ne on flōde swom,

ne be grunde wōd   gestum under,

ne lagu drefde,   ne of lyfte flēag,

ne on der bæc cyrde;   brohte hwǣþre

beornas ofer burnan   ond hyra bloncan mid

from stæðe hēaum,   þæt hȳ stopan up

on oþerne,  ellen-rōfe,

weras of wǣge,   ond hyra wicg gesund.