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The battle of Tal-y-Moelfre
(gedicht Gwalchmai op Meilyr)
I celebrate Rhodri’s bounteous heir,
Border-land’s guardian, rightful ruler,
Britain’s true lord, trial-hardened Owain,
King who neighter cringes nor covets.
Three legions came, sea-suge’s vessels,
Three strong navies seeking to crush him.
One from Ireland, a second with soldiers From the Norseman,
long prows of deep, And a
thirth sailing from Normandy,
And the task for it dire and dreadful.
And MÔn’s dragon, saved his mood in war,
And clamour, bold their call of battle,
And before him a grim wild welter
And clash and havoc and tragic death,
Troop on bloodstained troops, throb on frightened throb,
At Tal-y-Mooelkfre a thousand war-cries,
Fear on deep fear, drowning.
And no ebb in Menai from tides of blood,
And the stain of men’s blood in the brine.
And grey armour and ruin’s anguish,
And corpses heaped by a red-speared lord,
And England’s horde and engagement with it
And them demolished in the shambles.
And the fame raised of a savage sword
In seven-score tongues to praise him long.
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