I praise the Lord, Prince of the realm and King!
His rule extends across the whole wide world.
Gweir was penned beneath the fortress mound,
As tell the tales of Pwyll and Pryderi.
None before him passed into the prison,
With a heavy chain a faithful servant bound.
Bitter before the spoils of Annwn he sang,
And until Doomsday lasts our bardic prayer.
Three companies of warriors we went in --
Seven alone rose up from Elfs-castle.
Song rang out, honoring me with praise
In the four-peaked fortress, four its mighty turnings.
My verses from within the cauldron uttered,
By breath of maidens ninefold they were kindled.
The lord of Annwn's cauldron: how is it made?
A dark ridge on its border, crusted pearls.
Its fate is not to boil the meat of cowards,
The deadly flashing sword is lifted to it,
And in the hand of the Leaper it was left.
Before the doors of hell the lamps were burning.
When we went in with Arthur, blinding trouble --
Seven alone rose up from Meads-castle.
Song rang out, honoring me with praise
In the four-peaked fortress, isle of the strong door.
Flowing water and shining jet are mingled,
They drink the sparkling wine before their followers.
Three companies of warriors sailed the sea --
Seven alone rose up from Hard-castle.
I do not deserve to be put with poetasters:
Beyond the fort they missed the valor of Arthur.
Six thousand men stood on the glass wall,
Their sentinel was difficult to speak with.
Three companies of warriors went with Arthur --
Seven alone rose up from Guts-castle.
I do not deserve the mean men, slack their shield straps.
They do not know the day of our creation,
Nor what time of day the One was born.
Who made him who strayed far from Defwy meadows?
They do not know the ox, his thick headband,
Full sevenscore links upon his chained collar.
And when we went with Arthur, woeful visit --
Seven alone rose up from Gods-castle.
I do not deserve these men -- slack their will.
They do not know which day the chief was sired,
Nor what hour of day the lord was born,
Nor what beasts are kept, their heads of silver.
When we went in with Arthur, sorrowful strife --
Seven alone rose up from Box-castle.
Monks are a pack together -- a choir of dogs --
They shrink away from meeting the lords who know:
Is there one course of wind? One course of water?
Is there one spark of fire? Of fierce tumult?
Monks are a pack together, like youngling wolves
They shrink away from meeting the lords who know:
They do not know when night and dawn divide,
Nor wind, what is its course, nor what its onrush,
What place it ravages, nor where it strikes.
The grave of the saint vanishes, grave and ground.
I praise the Lord, great Prince of the whole world,
And so I am not sad, for Christ endows me.