Lament for Théodred (Old English)
Nú on théostrum licgeth Théodred se léofa
hæ'letha holdost. Ne sceal hearpen sweg
wigend weccean; ne winfæ't gylden
guma sceal healden, ne god hafoc
geond sæ'l swingan, ne se swifta mearh
burhstede beatan. Bealocwealm hafath
fréone frecan forth onsended.
Giedd sculon singan gléomenn sorgiende
on Meduselde thæ't he manna wæ're
his dryhtne direst and maga deorost.
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Now dear Théodred lies in darkness,
most loyal of fighters. The sound of the harp shall not
wake the warrior; nor shall the man
hold a golden wine-cup, nor good hawk
swing through the hall, nor the swift horse
stamp in the courtyard. An evil death has
sent forth the noble warrior.
A song shall sing sorrowing minstrels
in Meduseld, that he was of men
dearest to his lord and bravest of kinsmen.

(æ' = "æ" with an accent) (Totally stealing Maid of Orange's thing; I am so dumb : pp)