I thought it would be interesting to try this AI tool with the help of my son who is considering its usefulness. The software was simply asked to describe the club’s history up to about a hundred years ago and to do so in the style of Old English epic poetry. It took a very few seconds to come up with the following words but took a little longer to develop a picture to complement the text in the style of the Bayeux Tapestry.
Looks like programme notes and match reports could be next.
Here is the text followed by its translation into Anglo-Saxon.
In the days when Ware’s warriors first gathered,
In eighteen hundred ninety and two,
A band of valiant men did form a clan,
To chase the leather orb upon the green.
They donned the azure hues, the town’s own pride,
And faced their rivals with unyielding hearts.
In battles fierce within the county’s bounds,
They vied for Hertfordshire’s honoured cup.
In eighteen ninety-nine, their might prevailed,
O’er Hitchin’s stalwart squad, they claimed the prize.
The town rejoiced; the cup aloft was borne,
Through cheering throngs that lined the cobbled streets.
The East Herts League beheld their dominance,
As Ware’s brave eleven clinched the crown,
In seasons spanning nineties’ closing years,
Their prowess unmatched upon the field of strife.
Then came the call to broader, sterner tests,
The Herts County League did welcome them.
In nineteen hundred eight and nine, they rose,
As champions of the Eastern Division’s realm.
With victories amassed, they stood supreme,
Their glory echoed through the shire’s expanse.
Yet fate would summon trials of graver kind,
As war clouds gathered o’er the trembling world.
The Great War’s shadow cast upon the land,
And stilled the joyful cries of sport and mirth.
The fields where once the cheers of crowds resounded,
Lay silent, as the sons of Ware marched forth.
The club’s endeavours paused, as duty called,
And hearts were steeled for battles far afield.
Yet from the ashes of a world at war,
The phoenix of the club did rise anew.
In nineteen twenty-one and two, they soared,
Securing both the league’s esteemed acclaim,
And once again, the Hertfordshire Cup,
Their legacy enshrined in valour’s lore.
Thus, through the tapestry of time’s vast weave,
The tale of Ware’s indomitable team,
Is told in deeds of courage on the pitch,
A saga etched in Hertfordshire’s proud scrolls.
From nineteenth century’s dawn to present day,
Their spirit shines, a beacon ever bright.
You made it this far so here now is the text in the Anglo-Saxon –
Beorht wæs þæt fruman gear, þa Ware weardas
þæt folcgelæht forgeaf and wæron gefæstnod,
on eahtahund nigontig and twá gearum.
Folc gelæhton and férdon to wīgplegan,
þæt hæþenbryne on hæð weardas stræf.
Hī hæfdon blæd ond duguð micel,
on ealdheort scire, on Hærtfordscīre.
On nigontig-wintre and nýgentigum,
Hitchin felan sweart wæron geswencte,
þonne Wara hæleð þone wigesigor hæfdon.
Heorot gelæhton, hringlocas bræc,
fægre wæron, folc hlehhan.
On Ēast-Hærtfordscīr Ware dryhtas ræsdon,
hī beornas hæfdon sige oft and gelome.
Siððan him wæs gesæld Hærtford bregu,
ond Wara leodum lēaf geseald wæs,
þæt hi in þæs ealdan rices weard heoldan.
On nigon hundred wintre and eahta and nigen,
sigor ræsde, bēacen weard, in scīre.
Hī hæfdon hond-weorc strong,
hī dugudan on mearc-plegan.
Ac feor onsende wæs gryre scēa,
wíges þing hæleðum sceoc.
Manncyn wæs mid heolstre beþeht,
sweart wæs wīg, on worolde.
Hælðas waron, on wege swulton,
gárcwealm, beornas feollan.
Ne swegde glēo, ne swegde gomen,
ac fægum ræsdon to forwyrde.
Ac þa orþancle drihtas, hæfdon wīsdom,
þa æfter wīgplegan eft sóhtan.
On án and twá gearum beforan twēntig,
sigor Wara werod eft on lande.
Heoldan hī cuppe on heahstede,
bēacen ware beorht and lange.
Eala! Wara hæleð, sǣl ond sigor!
Fægrum beornum se fær genimð,
Ne geornest þæs swegles, ne hleow,
ac folc hī gehyrdon, hlis wæs gefæstnod.
Ne weald sceolde sweartne cwide,
ac sóhton mægð-gestreon in sǣl.
