Celtic Historic Literature by Aneirin, translation by Joseph Clancy
Three hundred, gold-torqued, war-like, well-trained,
Three hundred, haughty, in harmony, armed.
Three hundred fierce steeds bore them to battle.
Three hounds, three hundred: tragic, no return.
Savage in war, stubborn in distress, in a battle no truce would he make.
The day of wrath he did not shun strife, a boar's rage had Bleiddig mab Eli.
He guzzled wine from bowls made of glass.
The day of strife he performed a feat on a white stallion before he died:
Crimson corpses he left behind him.
Shield flashing fire, he bowed before no one, he nursed his thirst for glory.
Harsh demands, steeds in the van of battle, they planted spears, bloodstained foes.
When my comrade was struck, he struck others: no dishonour would he bear.
He stood firm at the ford: he was proud when his was the champion's share at courts.
God's haven of heaven, longed-for land, woe's ours, from weeping and ceaseless grief.
When lords came from Din Eidin, a host of picked men from each region,
In strife with the English, splendid army, nine companies on each man for a roof,
Piled-up steeds and armour and silk garments, Gwaednerth held his own in the battle.
verses 91, 92, 93 & 94