A lonely wanderer, wounded with iron,

I am smitten with war blades, sated with strife,

Worn with the sword-edge; I have seen many battles,

Much hazardous fighting, oft without hope

Of comforts and help in the carnage of war

Ere I perish and fall in the fighting of men.

The leavings of hammers, the handiwork of smiths,

Batter and bite me, hard-edge and sharp;

The brunt of the battle I am doomed to endure.

In all the folk-stead no leech could I find

With wort or simple to heal my wounds;

But day and night with the deadly blows

The marks of the war-blades double and deepen.

From The Book of Exeter, 13th century