Radnorshire Bardic Poems 48

This is a translation of another bardic poem  - an awdl rather than a cywydd - addressed to Dafydd ap Maredudd Fychan of Garddfaelog, Llanbister thanking him for the gift of a stallion. This time by Lewis Glyn Cothi.  Usual health warnings - translated years ago without the benefit of GPC and, no, I'm not at all up to speed with some of the irregular verb endings.

No 175, Thanks for a stallion Day and night, you are the Meirchion of the vale of Ithon, A rib of Maelienydd; I cannot leave home for a single day, Without asking after Dafydd. To you Dafydd, vine of the land of Cynan, blessings, Son of Maredudd Fychan; Grant to all from the three quarters, As a justice, the custom of Elystan. To the world you are Elystan, Monarch of Philip Dorddu; May you live as long as a rock crystal, And then an age with Jesus. Mead fed prince, Jesus allows you Garth Gynfyn, Gardd Faelog; The magistrate of Hywel ap Madog, To your cheek, my blessings for an age. There is an age, grown son, to give food and wine, From the high line of Meurig Llwyd; The land insists on honouring Your presence, you are brave. You are not moody, Or rough, by the hand of Curig, Nor fierce, nor angry, seed of Cadwgan. Nor feebly ignored, Nor mean to your lands, Nor a miser Dafydd, the face of talent. To me you are twice as good As any, near or far, And with gifts even better, the race of Cadwallon. Where you dwell, your word Noble Dafydd, is equal To that of Meurig in the land of Meirion. You gave silk a hundred nights, You gave unstintingly in the day, Night and morning and every hour of the afternoon. You gave me a three year old stallion, Light and sure footed, Your office is to give a steed to your simple bard. His nature is to take hold Of the bit in his nostril, A passionate sort, one coloured, perfect, Listening for the clarion Or the tune of the gun stone, At a thump jumping about, as far as Caereinion, Baiting the sleeve Of the bear despite his dung, Bruising his bearess, throwing some. Like a mountain hart, This serpent is like a moorland stag Across a flat field,   With the coat of a roebuck, Like a boar, like a fat apple, Like a clean, strong, wild beast, a well-fed lion. On Sunday, Dafydd I'll come with a cywydd To give daily thanks for my horse-haired stag. I'm your bard on your stallion Come to greet you, Your swan will win us respect from the host By my cross, I'm your man, Generous one of Gardd Faelog, Who serves a knight like Meirchion.