Poem: Wiglaf

The last of us, my sleeping aged king,

The last of us, and mine is hero’s work:

Defending my expired kingdom, bound

To wander weaponless beneath the kirk.

Enshrined in splendour’s shadow, ravens caw

And banquet on the scores of unburnt dead;

O where’s the hand that guided us before,

For whose heroic fame we fought and bled?

Inside my sodden castle, dripping dew–

These hanging roots my chandeliers then–

There I, bethroned upon a hostile stump,

Bestow effulgent gold to absent men.

Immortal honour gilds your holy name

In glory–ours to rust, to waste, the same.