Hwaet! Hwaet!
The red tunic hath arrived
And hath been well-donned.
My mail, like a dragon’s scales,
Flashes beneath.
The enemy approaches, envious,
His spear bloodily gleaming—
His boots muddied with the soil
Of my sacred grove.
Hwaet! I say to him—
The sun sets on thy clan.
The promised glory is come,
The bloody red tunic
And its fair golden helm are mine.
Shame is with you
Who wear not this banner,
Who cannot hearken
To the call of Beowulf the companion.