For a feast, most sad, most precious, for settled, for desolate land,
For the falling of hair from the head, among soldiers, an eagle, Gwydyen.
With his spear he fought for Gwyddug, a Planner, a tiller, its owner.
Three bristled boars, bent on destruction, Morien carried off with his spear,
Myrddin of song, sharing the best part of his wealth, our strength and support.
Ramparts ringing, the war-band fighting with the Saxons and Irish and Picts,
He bore the stiff red corpse of Bradwen, deft-handed Gwenabwy fab Gwen.
For a feast, most sad, most precious, for settled, for desolate land, shattered the shields in combat.
Savage the stroke of sword on head, in England men dead from three hundred lords,
His gauntlet performed good work against Saxons and Irish and Picts.
Though he seized a wolf 's pelt, without weapon, ever brave, in his bare hand,
From the battle of wrath and ruin he perished, Bradwen did not come back.
Gold on the wall bold the assault, sin not to press the attack.
One shouting Saxon was food for the birds, high-hearted the war-cry.
Those who live will tell of the spearmen's lord, of one like a lightning-bolt.
None who live will say on the day of slaughter Cynhafal withheld his support.
When you were a famous fighter defending the highland fields of grain,
By right we were known as men of note.
He was a strong door, strong fort in defeat, gracious to those who implored his aid,
Fort to an army that trusted him. where he was, was called Paradise.
I'm no weary lord, I avenge no wrong, I laugh no laughter,
Under crawlers' feet, my legs at full length in a house of earth,
A chain of iron about both ankles, caused by mead, by horn, by Catraeth's raiders.
I, not I, Aneirin, Taliesin knows it, master of word-craft, sang to Gododdin before the day dawned
Work, eat, shower, sleep. Repeat. Hurry onto weekend and respite.
For the falling of hair from the head, among soldiers, an eagle, Gwydyen.
With his spear he fought for Gwyddug, a Planner, a tiller, its owner.
Three bristled boars, bent on destruction, Morien carried off with his spear,
Myrddin of song, sharing the best part of his wealth, our strength and support.
Ramparts ringing, the war-band fighting with the Saxons and Irish and Picts,
He bore the stiff red corpse of Bradwen, deft-handed Gwenabwy fab Gwen.
For a feast, most sad, most precious, for settled, for desolate land, shattered the shields in combat.
Savage the stroke of sword on head, in England men dead from three hundred lords,
His gauntlet performed good work against Saxons and Irish and Picts.
Though he seized a wolf 's pelt, without weapon, ever brave, in his bare hand,
From the battle of wrath and ruin he perished, Bradwen did not come back.
Gold on the wall bold the assault, sin not to press the attack.
One shouting Saxon was food for the birds, high-hearted the war-cry.
Those who live will tell of the spearmen's lord, of one like a lightning-bolt.
None who live will say on the day of slaughter Cynhafal withheld his support.
When you were a famous fighter defending the highland fields of grain,
By right we were known as men of note.
He was a strong door, strong fort in defeat, gracious to those who implored his aid,
Fort to an army that trusted him. where he was, was called Paradise.
I'm no weary lord, I avenge no wrong, I laugh no laughter,
Under crawlers' feet, my legs at full length in a house of earth,
A chain of iron about both ankles, caused by mead, by horn, by Catraeth's raiders.
I, not I, Aneirin, Taliesin knows it, master of word-craft, sang to Gododdin before the day dawned
Work, eat, shower, sleep. Repeat. Hurry onto weekend and respite.
VIEW 14 of 14 COMMENTS
grooverider:
bleeding phones are the best! although i hear they're coming out with ones that also scream for mercy...
tubesound:
Them's some very cool words. Where's it from? Very Malory. Good to see ya again the other day buddy. Together we shall guard against NickySonic attacks. 