The heroes marched with speed, together were they regaled
That year over mead, and mighty was their design;
How sad to mention them, [130b] how doleful their commemoration! [130c]
Poison is the home to which they have returned, they are not as sons by mothers nursed; [130d]
How long our vexation, how long our regret,
For the brave warriors, whose native place was the feast of wine! [130e]
Gwlyget [131a] of Gododin, having partaken of the speech inspiring
Banquet of Mynyddawg, performed illustrious deeds, [131b]
And paid a price [131c] for the purchase of the battle of Cattraeth.
XXXIII.
The heroes went to Cattraeth in marshalled array, and with shout of war, [131d]
With powerful steeds, [131e] and dark brown harness, and with shields,
With uplifted [131f] javelins, and piercing lances,
With glittering mail, and with swords.
He excelled, and penetrated through the host,
Five battalions fell before his blade;
Rhuvawn Hir, [132a]—he gave gold [132b] to the altar,
And gifts and precious stones [132c] to the minstrel.
XXXIV.
No hall [132d] was ever made so eminently perfect,
So great, so magnificent for the slaughter; [133a]
Morien [133b] procured [133c] and spread the fire,
And would not say but that Cynon [133d] should see [133e] the corpse
Of one harnessed, armed with a pike, and of a wide spread fame; [133f]
His sword resounded on the summit occupied by the camp, [133g]
Nor was he moved [134a] aside in his course by a ponderous stone from the wall of the fort, [134b]
And never again will the son of Peithan [134c] be moved.
XXXV.
No hall was ever made so impregnable; [134d]
Had not Morien been like Caradawg, [134e]
The forward Mynawg, [134f] with his heavy armour, [134g] would not have escaped;
Enraged, he was fiercer than the son of Pherawg, [135a]
Stout his hand, and, mounted on his steed, [135b] he dealt out flames upon the retreating foe.
Terrible in the city was the cry of the timid multitude,
The van of the army of Gododin was scattered;
His buckler [135c] was winged with fire for the slaughter;
In the day of his wrath [135d] he was nimble—a destructive retaliator;
The dependants of Mynyddawg deserved their horns of mead.
XXXVI.
No hall was ever made so immoveable
As that of Cynon with the gentle breast, sovereign of the saints; [135e]
He sat no longer on his elevated throne, [136a]
Whom he pierced were not pierced again, [136b]
Keen was the point of his lance,
It perforated the enamelled armour, it penetrated through the troops;
Swift in the van were his horses, in front they tore along;
In the day of his anger [136c] blasting was his blade,
When Cynon rushed into battle with the green dawn.