Y Gododin: A Poem of the Battle of Cattraeth

by Aneirin

LXXIX.

Having sustained a loss, [182g] Moried bore no shield,
But traversed the strand [183a] to set the ground on fire;
Firmly he grasped in his hand a blue blade,
And a shaft ponderous as the chief priest’s [183b] crozier;
He rode a grey stately [183c] headed charger,
And beneath his blade there was a dreadful fall of slaughter;
When overpowered [183d] he fled not from the battle,—
Even he who poured out to us the famous mead, that sweet ensnarer.