"The Fortunes of Men" is a bit of gnomic wisdom in the Anglo-Saxon Maxims. In brief: "Some people will die horrible deaths (like these); some people will have awesome lives (like these). You get what you get and you don't get upset." Michael Drout, of Anglo-Saxon Aloud, translated it.
For whatever reason, I decided it would make a good song. Maybe it's all the dying, just in time for Halloween? Quite a lot of the phrases are right out of Drout's translation, but it was still some work making the meter and rhyme work.
Anyway. First draft. Syllables in (parentheses) are pickups or extra unstresses at the end of a line. They're "good enough for folk music" but I'm still trying to clean them up. The chorus has a tune, but not the verses yet.
The Fortunes of Men
Often it happens, a child is born
Into his mother’s fair arms
Teach him and tame him until the time comes
Trying to keep him from harm
Clothe him in colors, and care for him well
While at your full breast he clings
Nobody knows while the young child grows
Exactly what winter will bring
Chorus:
These are the fortunes of men, of men
These are the fortunes of men
Some are raised high, and some are cast low, and
Death comes for all in the end
Hoary-heath stepper, the wilding wolf
One man will kill and will eat;
Hunger another fells, mother will mourn
Son had no meat nor no wheat;
Loss of the light of the eyes for this one,
Feet which are lamed for that man;
One in the war in a red pool of gore
Dies for his lord’s last command
Featherless, falling from treetop on high
He seems to play in the air
Spirit departs, goes away from this world
(When he) falls on the tree roots all bare;
Wolf-head another, his misery cold
Treading an alien track
Friendless is he, has no lord to provide
(No) brother he has at his back
Bloody bone-coffin all broken on gal(lows)
Raven takes eyes from his head;
One at the mead-bench, he’s slain by a sword
Wine-words he should not have said
Steward serves the mead, and a man drinks his fill
Drinks it again and again
(Men) call him self-killer, his mouth slurred with drink
Angers his lord, is condemned.
Not all men’s lives are all toil and pain
Given to some is great good
Mead-cups and treasures, his wealth beyond mea(sure)
Hall made of stout and strong wood;
Battle-fame loud, or a master of war
Skill with the sword or the bow
Talent for table-games, played in the hall
Winning the dice with a throw
Wonder-gift given to goldsmith the skilled
Maker of glittering bands
Often he ornaments mail-coats of kings
Kings give him prizes and lands
Falconer trains the hawk proud on his hand
Slaughterer-sparrow he tames
Does on the jesses and feeds him in fet(ters)
Princes will give him word-fame
One man amuses his brothers at board
Brings to men cheer at their beer
At the lord’s feet, the old wise harper sits
Nails on the strings ringing clear
Song leaping out for the men in the hall
Tales given tongue when he speaks
(Of) all of these fortunes that someone might find
This is the fortune I seek
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