Canu Taliesin V

Original Text

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