IX.
The heroes marched to Cattraeth, filled with mead and drunk,
Compact and vigorous; [94a] I should wrong them were I to neglect their fame;
Around the mighty, red, and murky blades,
Obstinately and fiercely the dogs of war [94b] would fight;
If I had judged you to be of the tribe of Bryneich, [94c]
Not the phantom of a man would I have left alive. [94d]
I lost a friend, myself being unhurt,
As he openly withstood the terror of the parental chief;
Magnanimously did he refuse the dowry of his father-in-law; [94e]
Such was the son of Cian [95a] from the stone of Gwyngwn.