Moreiddig, encourager of songs, whose praise in battle is celebrated; they were brethren of a distant clime, of an undaunted heart, and their valour was observable in their countenance.  Can I forget their services? . . . Impetuous warriors, wolves of the battle, their lances are besmeared with gore; they were the heroes of the chief of Mochnant, [12c] in the region of Powys.  Their honour was soon purchased by them both; they seized every occasion to defend their country, in the time of need, with their bloody arms, and they kept their borders from hostile invasion.  Their lot is praise; it is like a mournful elegy to me to lose them both!  O Christ! how pensive am I for the loss of Moreiddig, which is irreparable.

Pour thou out the horn, though they desire it not, the drinking horn, hirlas, with cheerfulness, and deliver it into the hand of Morgant, one who deserves to be celebrated with distinguished praise.  It was like poison to me, to be deprived of him, and that he was pierced - - - - by the keen sword.

Pour, cup-bearer, from a silver vessel, an honourable gift, badge of distinction.  On the large plains of Gwestun [13a] I have seen a miracle; to stop the impetuosity of Gronwy, was more than a task for an hundred men.  The warriors pointed their lances, courted the battle, and were profuse of life; they met their enemies in the conflict, and their chieftain was consumed by fire near the surges of the sea. [13b]  They rescued a noble prisoner, Meurig the son of Griffydd, of renowned valour; they were all of them covered with blood when they returned, and the high hills and the dales enjoyed the sun equally. [13c]

Pour the horn to the warriors, Owain’s noble heroes, who were equally active and brave.  They assembled in that renowned place, where the shining steel glittered.  Madoc and Meilir were men accustomed to violence, and maintained each other in the injuries they did to their enemies; they were the shields of our army, and the teachers of warlike attack.  Hear ye, by drinking mead, how the lord of Cattraeth went with his warriors in defence of his just cause, the guards of Mynyddawc [13d] about their distinguished chief.  They have been celebrated for their bravery, and their speedy march.  But nobody has ever performed so noble an exploit as my warriors, in the tough land of Maelor, in rescuing the captive.

Pour out, cup-bearer, sweet and well strained mead, (the thrust of the spear is red in the time of need,) from the horns of wild oxen, covered with gold, for the honour,

and the reward of the souls of those departed heroes.  Of the numerous cares that surround princes, no one is conscious here but God and myself.  The man who neither gives nor takes quarter, and cannot be forced by his enemies to abide to his word, Daniel the valiant and beautiful: O cup-bearer, great is the task to entreat him; his men will not cease dealing death around them, till he is mollified.  Cup-bearer, our shares of mead are to be given us equally before the bright shining tapers.  Cup-bearer, hadst thou seen the action in the land of Llidwm, [14a] the men whom I honour have but what is their just reward.  Cup-bearer, hadst thou seen the armed chiefs, encompassing Owain, who were his shield against the violence of his foes, when Cawres [14b] was invaded with great fury.  Cup-bearer, slight not my commands: may we all be admitted into Paradise by the King of kings; and long may the liberty and happiness of my heroes continue, where the truth is to be discerned distinctly.

A POEM

To Myfanwy Fechan [15a] of Castell Dinas Bran, [15b] composed by Howel-ap-Einion Lygliw, [15c] a Bard who flourished about a.d. 1390.

I am without spirit, O thou that hast enchanted me, as Creirwy [15d] enchanted Garwy. [15e]  In whatever part of the world I am, I lament my absence from the marble castle of Myfanwy.  Love is the heaviest burden, O thou that shinest like the heavens, and a greater punishment cannot be inflicted than thy displeasure, O beautiful Myfanwy.  I who am plunged deeper and deeper in love, can expect no other ease, O gentle fair Myfanwy with the jet eyebrows, than to lose my life upon thy account.  I sung in golden verse thy praises, O Myfanwy; this is the happiness of thy lover, but the happiness is a misfortune.  The well-fed steed carried me pensive like Trystan, [15f] and great was his speed to reach the golden summit of Bran.  Daily I turn my eyes, and see thee, O thou that shinest like the waves of Caswennan. [15g]  Charming sight to gaze on thee in the spacious royal palace of Bran.  I have rode hard,

mounted on a fine high-bred steed, upon thy account, O thou with the countenance of cherry-flower bloom.  The speed was with eagerness, and the strong long-ham’d steed of Alban [16a] reached the summit of the highland of Bran.  I have composed, with great study and pains, thy praise, O thou that