Satire Of Cynan Garwyn son of Brochwael
Book of Taliesin XXIII
Cynan, the exciter of battle,
Bestowed on me treasure,
For not, false the glory
Of the stout hunting dogs of the domain.
Ahundred steeds of equal pace,
Silver their covering.
Ahundred legions in green
Of one front running together.
A hundred urchins in my bosom
And a battalion of cats.
Asword with sheath of stone.
A fist-cell better than any.
A hundred Cynan had,
Hateful not to see,
From the vales of Cadell.
In battle they were not shaken.
To the battle on Wy there resorted
Spears innumerable.
The Gwentians were slain,
With the gore-drenched blade.
A battle in Mona, great, fair,
Hovering over, and praised
Over the Menei, there went
Horses and confident ones.
A battle on the hill of Dyved.
Slaughter stings in motion.
Nor were seen
The kine before the countenance of any one.
Let the son of Brochwael boast,
He will declare his wish.
Let Cornwall greet,
The younger will not praise fate.
The incomprehensible will depress
In the day that is praised by me,
My patron of Cynan.
Battles arose.
A woeful spreading flame,
There raises up a great fire.
A battle in the country of Brachan,
A warring scene of tumult,
Miserable princes.
Were made to tremble before Cynan.
The breastplate being transfixed,
Like a ruler, they cried out,
Cyngen of perfect song
Thou wilt help with thy wide country.
A saying was heard.
Every one in his red place,
Be the circle red, they say ironically,
They will enslave thy Cynan.