Y Gododin: A Poem of the Battle of Cattraeth

by Aneirin

XI.

The heroes marched to Cattraeth with the dawn;
Feelingly did their relatives [96d] regret their absence;
Mead they drank, yellow, sweet, ensnaring;
That year is the point to which many [96e] a minstrel turns;
Redder were their swords than their plumes, [97a]
Their blades were white as lime, [97b] and into four parts were their helmets cloven, [97c]
Even those of [97d] the retinue of Mynyddawg the Courteous.