Welsh Poetry

From The Early Fourteenth Century
a poem by Dafydd ap Gwilym

Minnau, fardd rhiain feinir,
Yn llawen iawn mewn llwyn ir,
A'r galon fradw yn cadw cof,
A'r enaid yn ir ynof.
Addwyned gweled y gwydd,
Gwaisg nwyf, yn dwyn gwisg newydd,
Ac egin gwin a gwenith
Ar ol glaw araul a gwlith,
A dail glas ar dal y glyn,
A'r draenwydd yn ir drwynwyn.

I, the poet of a virgin girl,
Most happy in the green grove,
The languishing heart holding a memory
And the spirit fresh within me.
How sweet to see the trees,
Quick vigor in a new garment,
And the shoots of wine and dew,
And the green leaves on the hill's brow
And the thorn tree freshly tipped with white.

The Saxons of Flint

Lewis Glyn Cothi
an excellent satire upon a piper.
(translated by Mrs. M. C. Llewelyn)

A man, like others, formed by God,
On Sunday morning last I trod

The streets of Flint; an ill built maze-
I wish the whole were in a blaze!

An English marriage feast was there,
Which, like all English feasts, was spare.

Naught there revealed our mountain land,
The generous heart - the liberal hand -

No hirlas there was passed around
With richly foaming mead high crowned

The reason why I thither came
Was something for my art to claim -

An art that oft from prince and lord
Had won its just - its due reward.

With lips inspired I then began
To sing an ode to this rude clan:

Rudely they mocked my song and me,
And loathed my oft praised minstrelsy.

Alas! That though my cherished art
Boors should distress and wound my heart.

Fool that I was to think the muse
Could charm corn dealers - knavish ones;

My polished ode forsooth they hissed,
And I midst laughter was dismissed.

For William Beisir's bag they bawl,
`Largess for him' they loudly squall;

Each roared with throat at widest stretch
For Will the piper - low born wretch

Will forward steps as best he can,
Unlike a free enobled man:

A pliant bag `tween arm and chest,
While limping on he tightly prest.

He stares - he strives the bag to sound;
He swells his maw - and ogles round;

He twists and turns himself about,
With fetid breath his cheeks swell out.

What savage boors! His hideous claws
And glutton's skin win their applause!

With shuffling hand and clumsy mien
To doff his cloak he next is seen;

He snorted; bridled in his face,
And bent it down with much grimace.

Like to a kite he seemed that day,
A kite, when feathering of his prey!

The churl did blow a grating shriek,
The bag did swell, and harshly squeak,

As does a goose from nightmare crying,
Or dog, crushed by a chest when dying;

This whistling box's changeless note
Is forced from turgid veins and throat;

Its sound is like a crane's harsh moan,
Or like a gosling's latest groan;

Just such a noise a wounded goat
Sends from her hoarse and gurgling throat.

His unattractive screeching lay Being ended,
William sought for pay;

Some fees he had from this mean band,
But largess from no noble hand;

Some pence were offered by a few,
Others gave little halfpence too.

Unheeded by this shabby band
I left their feast with empty hand.

A dire mischance I wish indeed
On slavish Flint and its mean breed,

Oh! May its furnace be the place
Which they and piper Will may grace!

For their ill luck my prayer be told,
My curses on them young and old!

I ne'er again will venture there,
May death all further visits spare!