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Y Gododdin

Celtic Historic Literature by Aneirin, translation by Joseph Clancy


Men launched the assault, nourished as one a year over mead, grand their design.
How sad their tale, insatiable longing, bitter their home, no child to cherish it.
How long the grief for them and mourning, for ardent men of wine-nourished lands.
Gododdin's Gwlyged, warm in welcome, renowned Mynyddawg's feast he fashioned, and its cost, the battle of Catraeth.


Men went to Catraeth with a war-cry, speedy steeds and dark armour and shields,
Spear-shafts held high and spear-points sharp-edged, and glittering coats-of-mail and swords.
He led the way, he thrust through armies, five companies fell before his blades.
Rhufawn Hir gave gold to the altar, and a rich reward to the minstrel.


Never was made a hall so acclaimed, so mighty, so immense the slaughter.
You deserved your mead, Morien, fire-brand.
None said Cynon could not make corpses: a loud-shouting spearman in armour,
His sword rang upon the rampart's top.
No more than a broad-based rock will budge will he be budged, Gwyd son of Peithan.

verses 35, 36 & 37