Riddles

[Raven]

I'll give you an old Anglo-Saxon riddle. . .

My home is not quiet but I am not loud.
The lord has meant us to journey together.
I am faster than he and sometimes stronger,
But he keeps on going for longer.
Sometimes I rest but he runs on.
For as long as I am alive I live in him.
If we part from one another
It is I who will die.

[Coír Draoi Ceítien]

Is it something abstract, like life? Another guess would be the soul, but I have my doubts about that.

[Raven]

Not abstract. Here's some more clue.

     Though I wear armor.
     I carry no sword.
     Though I have a mouth
     I speak not
     Though I neither walk nor fly
     I can travel swiftly between soil and sky.
     
   
     

[Coír Draoi Ceítien]

A ship?

[Raven]

I see ships,
but they look to me
like big dark clouds
above the sea,
But sometimes they drag me
upon the deck
to rend my bones
and chop my neck.

[Coír Draoi Ceítien]

It sounds like a fish....a trout?

[Raven]

Fish it is!

[Coír Draoi Ceítien]

Okay, you may already have heard this one, but here's an Arabian riddle:

A red city, its walls are green, its key is iron and its inhabitants are black slaves.

[Raven]

I don't remember hearing it before but is it a
Watermelon?

[Coír Draoi Ceítien]

Yes.

[Raven]

Here is one from the Exeter book. I included the original Anglo-Saxon because its obviously cool.


My beak is downward     and low I move
and dig in the ground.     The hoar foe of the forest
directs my movements;     and so my master
goes bent over,     the guide at my tail,
drives across the field,     pushes me and crowds me,
and sows in my swath.     I go sniffing along,
brought from the woodland,     stoutly fastened,
borne on a wagon.     I have many strange ways.
I leave green on one side     and black on the other.
Driven through my back     there hangs beneath
a well-sharpened point;     on my head another,
firm and forward-moving.     What I tear with my teeth
falls to the side,     if he serves me well,
my lord who behind me     heeds me and guides me.


Neb is min niþerweard     neol ic fere
⁊ be grunde græfe     geonge swa me wisað
har holtes feond     ⁊ hlaford min ·
woh færeð     weard æt steorte
wrigaþ on wonge     wegeð mec ⁊ þyð
saweþ ōn swæð mīn     ic snyþige forð
brungen of bearme     bunden cræfte
wegen on wægne     hæbbe wundra fela
me biþ gongendre     grene on healfe
⁊ min swæð sweotol     sweart on oþre
me þurh hrycg wrecen     hongaþ under
ān orþoncpil     oþer on heafde
fæst ⁊ forðweard     fealleþ on sidan
ꝥ ic toþum tere     gif me teala þenaþ
hindeweardre     þæt biþ hlaford min

[Coír Draoi Ceítien]

A scythe?

[Raven]

Dragged am I       by four-footed man-friend
Brother to scythe     though I cut no wheat
My swaths are deeper        and leave no sheaves
No grain fears me            but worms despair.

[Coír Draoi Ceítien]

A plow?

[Raven]

That is correct, my friend.