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Ar Un Blynedd
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Ar vn blyned Un yn darwed Gʋin a mall a med. A gʋrhyt diassed Ac eilewyd gorot. A heit am vereu Ae pen ffuneu Ae tec gʋydua eu Ei paʋb oe wyt Dyfynt ymplymnʋyt Ae varch ydanaʋ Yg godeu gʋeith mynaʋ. A chwanec anaʋ Bud am li am laʋ ʋyth vgein vn lliʋ O loi a biʋ Biʋ blith ac ychen A phop kein agen Ny bydʋn lawen Bei lleas Vryen Ys cu kyn eithyd Yeis kygryn kygryt A briger wen olchet Ac elor y dyget A gran gʋyarllet Am waet gʋyr gonodet A gʋr bʋrr bythic. A uei wedʋy wreic Am ys gʋin ffeleic. Am ys gʋin mynyc gyltʋn Am sorth am porth am pen Kan na phar kyfʋyrein Kymaran tauaʋ Gwas y drʋs gʋarandaʋ Py trʋst ae dayar a gryn Ae mor a dugyn Dygʋynyc ychyngar ʋrth y pedyt Ossit vch ymryn Neut Vryen ae gryn Ossit vch ym pant Neut Vryen ae gʋant Ossit vch y mynyd. Neud Vryen a oruyd Ossit vch yn riʋ Neut Vryen ae briʋ Ossit vch yg claʋd Neut Vryen a blaʋd Vch hynt vch as Vch ympop kamas Nac vn treʋ na deu Ny naʋd y rac eu Ny bydei ar newyn A phreideu yn y gylchyn Gorgoryaʋc gorlassaʋc gorlassar Eil agheu oed y par Yn llad y escar Ac yny vallʋyfi hen Ym dygyn agheu aghen. Ny bydif ym dyrwen. Na molʋyf Vryen. |
In one year One that provides Wine and bounty and mead And manliness without enmity And a musician excelling With a swarm of spears about him With ribbons at their heads And their fair appearances Every one went from his presence They came into the conflict And his horse under him Purposing the affair of Mynaw And more harmony Advantage flowing about his hand Eight score of one colour Of calves and cows Milch cows and oxen And every fair need I should not be joyful If Urien were slain He is dear before he went A Saxon shivering, trembling With hair white-washed And a bier his destiny With a bloody face For the blood of men a little protected And a man of the intrenchment persevering Whose wife is a widow Mine is the wine of the prince Mine is the wine of the frequent parties My chance, my aid, my head Since the rising up will not cause A striking fronting one another Porter, listen What is the noise - is it the earth that quakes? Or is it the sea that swells? Whitened, clinging together, against the infantry If there is a cry on the hill Is it not Urien that terrifies? If there is a cry in the valley Is it not Urien that pierces? If there is a cry on the mountain Is it not Urien that conquers? If there is a cry on the slope Is it not Urien that wounds? If there is a cry in the dyke Is it not Urien that is active? A cry of a journey over the plain, A cry in every meandering vale Nor will one sneeze or two Protect from death He would not be on famine With spoils surrounding him Over-querulous, trailing, of a blue tint Like death was his spear Killing his enemy And until I shall fail in old age In the sore necessity of death May I not be smiling If I praise not Urien |
~ W.F. Skene (1868) The Four Ancient Books of Wales, p. 348