Welsh Journals

A war-band with unbending spears arrayed Drew up in ranks within this palisade; The courtiers, and the host besides, gave throat To cheer their noble chief, in battle strong. There is a fortress on the foreland height I know at Tenby, safe above the sea, Beyond the reach of ninth successive wave When surging ocean tide puts forth its might. Fine are its men when savouring their ease Merry, with neither insult to displease Nor lack of welcome; better far a slave In Dyfed than a Deudraeth yeoman free! There is a fortress loved where, two by two For messing, are the best of men alive. The hearty throng in merrymaking roars On festivals above the foam-flecked shores, Answering loud, as horns of mead revive, The seagulls' challenge down the chimney flue; Warm round the fireplace in the lamp-lit hall, Laughing at every jest they can recall. There is a fortress where my kinsmen fell, Gwynedd men deserved our ruthless spears. I saw them locked with us in full dispute The next day there was death, and blood-soaked hair And shame of shattered shields; plain to our ears, When our survivors gave up the pursuit, Came distant wailing harp-strings of despair. Weary were they who lived, the tale to tell. Here in our fortress, storm-bound citadel, My custom was upon a New Year's Eve To sleep beside my battle-glorious prince, Partake of every luxury he had And render songs of old to make him glad Deeds of our Dyfed warriors long since