The Satire on Cynan
Book of Taliesin XXIII
Cynan, war's bulwark,
Poured on me prizes,
For his fame is not false,
Manor's great master.
A hundred swift steeds,
Silver their trappings,
Hundred heather-hued cloaks
Cut equally long,
Hundred armlets in my lap
And fifty brooches,
A sword, jewelled sheath,
Gold-hilted, none better:
These came from Cynan;
No wrath could one see!
Cadell's descendent,
Steadfast in battle,
Made war on the Wye,
Spears without number:
He slew men of Gwent
With a blood-stained blade.
In Mon, mighty battle,
Superlative praise,
Crossing the Menai:
Quite easy, the rest!
War at Crug Dyfed,
Aergol on the run,
Never any before
Seen heading his herd.
Brochfael's son, broad-realmed,
Bent on dominions,
Menaces Cornwall,
Casts doubt on its fate,
Brings on it distress
Till it pleads for peace.
My patron, Cynan,
First into battle,
With bright flame far-spread
Setting soaring fires,
War in Brychan's land:
Hill-fort, a mole-hill!
Pathetic princes,
Cringe before Cynan!
Breast-plate in battle,
Dragon by nature,
Akin to Cyngen,
A broad realm's bulwark,
He heard men saying
Whenever they spoke,
All the world is called
Captive to Cynan!