Here Athelstane king,
Of earls the lord,
To warriors the ring-giver,
Glory world-long
Had won in the strife,
By edge of the sword,
At Brunanburgh. 
The offspring of Edward,
The departed king,
Cleaving the shields. 
Struck down the brave. 
Such was their valour,
Worthy of their sires,
That oft in the strife
They shielded the land
’Gainst every foe. 
The Scottish chieftains,
The warriors of the Danes,
Pierced through their mail,
Lay dead on the field. 
The field was red
With warriors’ blood,
What time the sun,
Uprising at morn,
The candle of God,
Ran her course through the heavens;
Till red in the west
She sank to her rest. 
Through the live-long day
Fought the people of Wessex,
Unshrinking from toil,
While Mercian men,
Hurled darts by their side. 
Fated to die
Their ships brought the Danes,
Five kings and seven earls,
All men of renown,
And Scots without number
Lay dead on the field. 
Constantine, hoary warrior,
Had small cause to boast. 
Young in the fight,
Mangled and torn,
Lay his son on the plain. 
Nor Anlaf the Dane
With wreck of his troops,
Could vaunt of the war
Of the clashing of spears. 
Or the crossing of swords,
with the offspring of Edward. 
The Northmen departed
In their mailed barks,
Sorrowing much;
while the two brothers,
The King and the Etheling,
To Wessex returned,
Leaving behind
The corpses of foes
To the beak of the raven,
The eagle and kite,
And the wolf of the wood.

The Chronicle simply adds, “A.D. 937.—­This year King Athelstan, and the Etheling Edmund, his brother, led a force to Brimanburgh, end there fought against Anlaf, and, Christ helping them, they slew five kings and seven earls.”

v Murder of Edmund.

A certain robber named Leofa, whom Edmund had banished for his crimes, returning after six years’ absence, totally unexpected, was sitting, on the feast of St. Augustine, the apostle of the English, and first Archbishop of Canterbury, among the royal guests at Pucklechurch, for on this day the English were wont to regale, in commemoration of their first preacher; by chance, too, he was placed near a nobleman, whom the king had condescended to make his guest.  This, while the others were eagerly carousing, was perceived by the king alone; when, hurried with indignation, and impelled by fate, he leaped from the table, caught the robber by the hair, and dragged him to the floor; but he, secretly drawing a dagger from its sheath, plunged it with all his force into the breast of the king as he lay upon him.  Dying of the wound, he gave rise over the whole kingdom to many fictions concerning his decease.  The robber was shortly torn limb from limb by the attendants who rushed in, though he wounded some of them ere they could accomplish their purpose.  St. Dunstan, at that time Abbot