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This is an original song I wrote and performed in Old English. Ever since I was a mere boy growing up in England and speaking English, the Norman Conquest has bothered me greatly. The main reason for this is that I find Old English to be such an incredibly rich, beautiful language. The Norman Conquest really spelled the end of English staying deeply and conservatively connected to its West Germanic roots, with so many wonderful words being expelled from the language. Harold Godwinson has, as a result, always been something of a hero of mine. I’ve called him “The Last King of the English” in this song as his demise saw the end of Anglo-Saxon kingship. The odds he was up against are incredible; he had to march across the whole of England, from London to Stamford Bridge near York, to fight the Norwegian king Harald Hardrada and his own brother, Tostig Godwinson. He did so and won, and then had to march all the way back down to Hastings in the south, which he did in full gear - having just fought a battle - in just four (!) days. Most heartbreakingly of all, they could have actually won the battle but the Normans managed to lure them from their strong position and encircle them. Who knows what the world would look like now if Harold Godwinson had won - for better or worse! I have made this song to honour his attempts at defending England from every manner of foe. I hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think in a comment (I very much enjoy reading them), and feel free to leave any suggestions for historical figures/events/topics you’d like me to cover! Follow me on Spotify (The Skaldic Bard): If you'd like to support my work, you can do so here: Thank you for your kindness. Please do not redistribute my work without permission. Feel free to email me with any inquiries! Lyrics: Ēadweard Andettere stearf and næfþ ierfeweard. Witena ġemōt hæfþ Harolde ġecoren. Sind þrī þe Englaland willaþ beniman. Ān sārspell becōm belǣwunge brōþor. Tostig and Harold Norrena sȳð siġlaþ. Of Normandiġe cymeþ on þrēat Willelm. Ēadwin and Mōrcǣr feohtaþ for þām cyninge Engla! Six þūsend Norþmonna tō Fūlforde cumaþ! Harold Gōdwines sunu! Endenehsta Cyning Engla! Harold Gōdwines sunu! Fǣrsceaðan cwōmon of eallum hwammum! Harold Gōdwines sunu! Gōd miltsiġe his sāwle! Harold Gōdwines sunu! Hē feaht for frēom Englalande! Men þāra eorla onrǣsaþ þā fīend. Manlīċe fuhton hīe, ac here miċel wæs. Earmas Englisċra cempena ġetēoriaþ and Eoforwīċ ofġefen Norþmonnum is. Nū mid cyninge gangaþ wē of Lundene. Hund and hundnigontiġ mīla sind wē ġegangen. Harold rād tō þām norrenan: “Nālīefe iċ þē nān foldan, ac ġiefe six fōta eorþan, þæs þū þēr bebyrġed wierst!” Harold Gōdwines sunu! Endenehsta Cyning Engla! Harold Gōdwines sunu! Fǣrsceaðan cwōmon of eallum hwammum! Harold Gōdwines sunu! Gōd miltsiġe his sāwle! Harold Gōdwines sunu! Hē feaht for frēom Englalande! Þā beġinþ feohtlāc æt Stanfordbryċġe. Norren æxhearding stent þēr and forset hīe. Fēowertiġ monna sliehþ, his strengþu brēmaþ wē, ac þā him þurh hryċġ wrecaþ ān orþoncpil. Norþmenn gerāwaþ hīe, wē onrǣsaþ þone weall! “Ne restaþ oþ þæt hīe ġeslæġene bēon!” Sēo rāw Norþmonna ġebroten, Tostig and Harold ġefēollon. Dēaþcwealm wæs norþherġes. Nū grētaþ we Willelm! Harold Gōdwines sunu! Endenehsta Cyning Engla! Harold Gōdwines sunu! Fǣrsceaðan cwōmon of eallum hwammum! Harold Gōdwines sunu! Gōd miltsiġe his sāwle! Harold Gōdwines sunu! Hē feaht for frēom Englalande! Æfter þrim dagum cwōm sē þridda ġelǣca. Willelm lendeþ æt Pæfensēawīċe. Sona āfaraþ wē ofer eall þæt land. Næs þæt ēðe sīð, ac nē ġemealt mōdsefa. Miċel ūthere samnaþ æt Hæstingum. Ten þūsend monna on Englisċre eorþan! Sēo fyrd and hūscarlas fȳsaþ tō beadwe, mid æxum on handa stariaþ ofer rand heora. On ærne morgen Winterfylleþes, fēdeþ sēo beorhte sunne ūre wrǣþþe. God nerie þone cyning! Rihtlīċe rīcsaþ hē! Ġif Willelm nylþ sibbe, sċeal he æt Seaxnum feallan. Þer ġestandaþ ealle wē and ðunorrādstefne ŪT, ŪT! ġiellaþ we, ŪT of Englalande! Wē standaþ upon hylle sċieldende wiþ flānas. Wē āsċūfaþ gārwigan, sē wīghaga ne hrērþ. Wē līehtaþ byrþenne horsa þāra fēonda. Brytas Willelmes on holt ūtaflēoþ. Belifaþ, belifaþ! Nē folgiaþ hīe on holt! Ofsniðaþ wrǣþþe, healdaþ þone sċieldweall! Oðflēoþ hīe eft, ac heorugrǣdigum mōdum oferfylgiaþ wē þā hildlatan. Ne, men, hit wil wæs! Hīe tennedon ūs! Ēored onrǣsaþ ūre bacu gārum! And on þæt ġefeoht hittaþ flān ūrne cyninge! His ēage! His ēage! Harold cyning is dēad! Heora here ġebolgen wierþþ and īecþ þone onrǣs. Wē oferwunnene sind, Willelm siġefæst is. Harold Gōdwines sunu! Endenehsta Cyning Engla! Harold Gōdwines sunu! Fǣrsceaðan cwōmon of eallum hwammum! Harold Gōdwines sunu! Gōd miltsiġe his sāwle! Harold Gōdwines sunu! Hē feaht for frēom Englalande!
