He supported martial steeds and harness of war;
Drenched with gore, on the red-stained field of Cattraeth,
The foremost shaft in the host is held by the consumer of forts, [181a]
The brave [181b] dog of battle, upon the towering hill.
We are called to the gleaming [181c] post of assault,
By the beckoning hand [181d] of Heiddyn, [181e] the ironclad chief.
LXXVIII.
The sovereign, who is celebrated in the Gododin, [181f]
The sovereign, for whom our eye-lids [182a] weep,
From the raging flame of Eiddyn [182b] turned not aside; [182c]
He stationed men of firmness in command, [182d]
And the thick covering guard [182e] he placed in the van,
And vigorously he descended upon the scattered foe;
In that he had revelled, he likewise sustained the main weight;
Of the retinue of Mynyddawg, none escaped,
Save one man by slow steps, thoroughly weakened, and tottering every way. [182f]
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.
LXXX.
I beheld the array from the highland of Adowyn, [183e]
And the sacrifice brought down to the omen fire; [183f]
I saw what was usual, a continual running towards the town, [184a]
And the men of Nwython inflicting sharp wounds;
I saw warriors in complete order approaching with a shout,
And the head of Dyvnwal Vrych [184b] by ravens [184c] devoured.
LXXXI.
Blessed Conqueror, of temper mild, the strength [184d] of his people,
With his blue streamers displayed towards the sea-roving foes. [185a]
Brave is he on the waters, most numerous his host;
Manly his bosom, loud his shout in the charge of arms.
Usual was it for him [185b] to make a descent before nine armaments, [185c]
With propulsive strokes, [185d] in the face of blood and of the country.
I love thy victorious throne, which teemed with harmonious strains.
O Cynddilig of Aeron, [185e] thou lion’s whelp.