Here are ten Anglo-Saxon Riddles.
The Answers are at the bottom of the page.
I'm by nature solitary, scarred by spear
and wounded by sword, weary of battle.
I frequently see the face of war, and fight
hateful enemies; yet I hold no hope
of help being brought to me in the battle,
before I'm eventually done to death.
In the stronghold of the city sharp-edged swords,
skillfully forged in the flame by smiths
bite deeply into me. I can but await
a more fearsome encounter; it is not for me
to discover in the city any of those doctors
who heal grievous wounds with roots and herbs.
The scars from sword wounds gape wider and wider
death blows are dealt me by day and by night.
Wob's my name if you work it out;
I'm a fair creature fashioned for battle
When I bend and shoot my deadly shaft
from my stomach, I desire only to send
that poison as far away as possible.
When my lord, who devised this torment for me,
releases my limbs, I become longer
and, bent upon slaughter, spit out
that deadly poison I swallowed before.
No man's parted easily from the object
I describe; if he's struck by what flies
from my stomach, he pays for its poison
with his strength - speedy attonement for his life
I'll serve no master when unstrung, only when
I'm cunningly nocked. Now guess my name.
Favoured by men, I am found far and wide,
taken from woods and the heights of the town,
From high and from low. during each day
bees brought me through the bright sky
skillfully home to a shelter. Soon after that
I was taken by men and bathed in a tub.
Now I blind them and chasten them, and cast
a young man at once to the ground,
and sometimes an old one too.
He who struggles against my strength,
he who dares grapple with me, discovers immediately
that he will hit the hard floor with his back
if he persists with such stupidity.
Deprived of his strength and strangely loquacious,
he's a fool, who rules neither his mind
nor his hands nor his feet.
Now ask me, my friends,
who knocks young men stupid,
and as his slave binds them
in broad waking daylight?
Yes ask me my name.
The dank earth, wonderously cold,
first delivered me from her womb.
I know in my mind I wasn't made
from wool, skillfully fashioned with skeins.
Neither warp nor weft wind about me,
no thread thrums for me in the thrashing loom,
nor does a shuttle rattle for me,
nor does the weaver's rod bang and beat me.
Silkworms didn't spin with their strange craft for me,
those strange creatures that embroider cloth of gold.
Yet men will affirm all over this earth
that I am an excellent garment.
O wise man, weigh your words
well, and say what this object is.
A strange thing hangs by man's hip,
hidden by a garment. It has a hole
in its head. It is stiff and strong
and its firm bearing reaps a reward.
When the retainer hitches his clothing
high above his knee, he wants the head
of that hanging thing to find the old hole
that it, outstretched, has often filled before.
I'm told a certain object grows
in the corner, rises and expands, throws up
a crust. A proud wife carried off
that boneless wonder, the daughter of a king
covered that swollen thing with a cloth.
On the way a miracle: water become bone.
On earth there's a warrior of curious origin.
He's created, gleaming, by two dumb creatures
for the benefit of men. Foe bears him against foe
to inflict harm. Women often fetter him,
strong as he is. If maidens and men
care for him with due consideration
and feed him frequently, he'll faithfully obey them
and serve them well. Men succour him for the warmth
he offers in return; but this warrior will savage
anyone who permits him to become too proud.
A woman, young and lovely, often locked me
in a chest; she took me out at times,
lifted me with fair hands and gave me
to her loyal lord, fulfilling his desire.
Then he stuck his head well inside me,
pushed it upwards into the smallest part.
It was my fate, adorned as I was, to be filled
with something rough if that person who possessed me
was virile enough. Now guess what I mean.
I saw a creature: his stomach stuck out behind him,
enormously swollen. A stalwart servant
waited upon him. What filled his stomach
had travelled from afar, and flew through his eye.
He does not always die in giving life
to others, but new strength revives
in the pit of his stomach: he breathes again.
He fathers a son; he's his own father also.
4. Mail - shirt