Anglo-Saxon Riddles

Bilbo and Gollum (Smeagol) Riddle Jousting

Perhaps some of you will remember a familiar name, J. R. R. Tolkien, and his delightful work The Hobbit, in which a smallish, Englishy creature named Bilbo finds himself in a dank cave, fighting for his life by riddle jousting with the hungry-for-hobbit Smeagol. Tolkien took so much of what he wrote from Anglo-Saxon culture, riddles not excepted. 

Why did Anglo-Saxons love riddles, word games? Perhaps because hunting for treasure was in their blood, as was beautifully wrought treasure itself. Poetry is a kind of riddle, a word-treasure to admire, and in the struggle for and discovery of its meaning doth its beauty shine forth ; )

As you try your hand at these Anglo-Saxon riddles below, keep in mind that the answers to these riddles are generally concrete things (a bird, a castle, an egg) as opposed to abstract ideas (like love, joy, hate).

Enjoy!




Riddle 1

Our world is lovely in different ways,
Hung with beauty and works of hands.
I saw a strange machine, made
For motion, slide against the sand,
Shrieking as it went. It walked swiftly
On its only foot, this odd-shaped monster,
Traveled in an open country without
Seeing, without arms, or hands,
With many ribs, and its mouth in its middle.
Its work is useful, and welcome, for it loads
Its belly with food, and brings abundance
To men, to poor and to rich, paying
Its tribute year after year. Solve
This riddle, if you can, and unravel its name.



Riddle 2

A creature came through the waves, beautiful
And strange, calling to shore, its voice
Loud and deep; its laughter froze
Men’s blood; its sides were like sword-blades. It swam
Contemptuously along, slow and sluggish,
A bitter warrior and a thief, ripping
Ships apart, and plundering. Like a witch
It wove spells—and knew its own nature, shouting:
“My mother is the fairest virgin of a race
Of noble virgins: She is my daughter
Grown great. All men know her, and me,
And know, everywhere on earth, with what joy
We will come to join them, to live on land!” 



Riddle 3
 
The deep sea suckled me, the waves sounded over me;
rollers were my coverlet as I rested on my bed.
I have no feet and frequently open my mouth
to the flood. Sooner or later some man will
consume me, who cares nothing for my shell.
With the rough point of his knife he will pierce me through, ripping the skin away from my
side, and straight away eat me uncooked as I am . . .



Riddle 4

I am the scalp of myself, skinned by my foeman.
Robbed of my strength, he steeped and soaked me,
Dipped me in water, whipped me out again,
Set me in the sun. I soon lost there
The hairs I had had. The hard edge
Of a keen-ground knife cuts me now,
Fingers fold me, and a fowl’s pride
Drives its treasure trail across me,
Bounds again over the brown rim,
Sucks the wood-dye, steps again on me.
Makes his black marks.