XCI.
Were he to narrow [198a] my dominions through extortion, [198b]
The arrival of no enemy would prove to me more formidable. [198c]
The man has not been nursed who could be more festive in the hall
Than he, or steadier in the field of battle.
On the ford of Penclwyd [198d] Pennant were his steeds;
Far spread was his fame, compact was his armour;
And ere the long grass covered him beneath the sod,
He, the only son of Morarch, [198e] poured out the horns of mead.