LXXXVI.
When the host of Pryder [189b] arrives,
I anxiously count [190a] the bands,
Eleven complete battalions;
There is now a precipitate flight [190b]
Along the road of lamentation.
Affectionately have I deplored, [190c]
Dearly have I loved,
The illustrious dweller of the wood, [190d]
And the men of Argoed, [190e]
Accustomed, in the open plain, [191a]
To marshal their troops.
For the benefit of the chiefs, the lord of the war [191b]
Laid upon rough [191c] boards,
Midst a deluge of grief,
The viands for the banquet,
Where they caroused together;—he conducted us to a bright [191d] fire,
And to a carpet of white and fresh [191e] hide.