Classic Poem

Modred wes i Cornwale and somnede cnihtes feole:
To Irlonde he sende aneouste his sonde;
To Sexlonde he sende aneouste his sonde;
To Scotlonde he sende aneouste his sonde.
He hehten heom to cume alle anan that wolde lond habben —
Other seolver other gold other ahte other lond.
On elchere wisen he warnede hine seolven,
Swa deth elc witer mon tha neode cumeth uvenan.
Arthur that y-herde, wrathest kinge,
That Modred wes i Cornwale mid muchele mon-weorede,
And ther wolde abiden that Arthur come riden.
Arthur sende sonde yeond al his kinelonde,
And to cumen alle hehte that quic wes on londe,
Tha to vihte oht weoren, wepnen to beren;
And whaswa hit forsete that the King hete,
The King hine wolde a folden quic al forbernen.
Hit lec toward hirede folc unimete,
Ridinde and ganninde swa the rein falleth adune.
Arthur for to Cornwale mid unimete ferde.
Modred that y-herde and him toyeines heolde
Mid unimete folke; ther weore monie veie.
Uppen there Tambre heo tuhten togadere —
The stude hatte Camelford; evermare y-last that ilke worde!
And at Camelforde wes y-somned sixti thusend
And ma thusend therto; Modred wes heore elder.
Tha thiderward gon ride Arthur the riche
Mid unimete folke, veie thah hit weore.
Uppe there Tambre heo tuhte tosomne,
Heven here-marken, halden togadere;
Luken sweord longe, leiden o the helmen;
Fur ut sprengen; speren brastlien,
Sheldes gonnen shanen, shaftes tobreken.
Ther faht al tosomne folc unimete:
Tambre wes on flode mid unimete blode.
Mon i than fihte non ther ne mihte y-kenne nenne kempe,
No wha dude wurse no wha bet, swa that wither wes y-menged;
For elc sloh adunriht, weore he swein, weore he cniht.
Ther wes Modred ofslawe and y-don of lif-dawe,
And alle his cnihtes y-slawe in than fihte.
Ther weoren ofslawe alle tha snelle
Arthures hered-men, heye and lowe,
And tha Bruttes alle of Arthures borde,
And alle his fosterlinges of feole kineriches;
And Arthur forwunded mid wal-spere brade:
Fiftene he hafde feondliche wunden —
Mon mihte i thare laste twa gloven y-thraste.
Tha n'as ther na mare i than fehte to lave,
Of twa hundred thusend monnen that ther leien to-hauwen,
Buten Arthur the King ane and of his cnihtes tweien.
Arthur wes forwunded wunder ane swithe.
Ther to him com a cnave the wes of his cunne:
He wes Cadores sune, the Eorles of Cornwaile;
Constantin hehte the cnave; he wes than kinge deore.
Arthur him lokede on, ther he lay on folden,
And thas word seide mid sorhfulle heorte:
" Constantin, thu art wilcume! Thu weore Cadores sone.
Ich the bitache here mine kineriche,
And wite mine Bruttes a to thines lifes,
And hald heom alle tha lawen tha habbeth y-stonden a mine dawen,
And alle tha lawen gode that bi Utheres dawen stode.
And ich wulle varen to Avalun, to vairest alre maidene,
To Argante there quene, alven swithe shene;
And heo shal mine wunden makien alle y-sunde,
Al hal me makien mid haleweiye drenchen.
And seothe ich cumen wulle to mine kineriche
And wunien mid Brutten mid muchelere wunne."
Efne than worden ther com of se wenden
That wes an short bat lithen, shoven mid uthen;
And twa wimmen therinne, wunderliche y-dihte.
And heo nomen Arthur anan and aneouste hine vereden,
And softe hine adun leiden, and forth heo gunnen lithen.
Tha wes hit y-wurthen that Merlin seide whilen:
That weore unimete care of Arthures forthfare.
Bruttes y-leveth yete that he beon on live,
And wunnien in Avalun mid fairest alre alven;
And lokieth evere Bruttes yete whan Arthur cumen lithe.
N'is never the mon y-boren of never nane burde y-coren
The cunne of than sothe of Arthure suggen mare.
Bute while wes an witeye Merlin y-hate:
He bodede mid worde — his quides weoren sothe —
That an Arthur shulde yete cum Anglen to fulste.