Has it rich pasture, rivers, woods,
Arable land besides?
All well watered with their blood
That 'gainst me dared to rise?

And what of the Welsh, that wretched breed?
Are they as content
As I would wish, and as the ox
That 'neath the yoke is pent?

Zounds, my liege, the finest jewel
In thy crown is Wales.
With plough and pasture, woods and streams,
Abound its hills and vales,

While the Welsh, that wretched breed,
Not a murmur raise.
Silent are their hovels all
As neglected graves.

Edward the king, the English king,
Onward spurred his grey.
Silence reigned where'er he went
And no man said him nay.

Montgomery the castle was,
Montgomery its lord,
Where one fateful evening
The king found bed and board.

Game and fish and every dish
That eye and tongue delight
Were served him by a hundred men;
It was a wondrous sight.

All manner of meat and drink there was
That this fine isle can bear;
Many a wine from overseas
Foamed and sparkled there.

My lords and gentles! Will none of you
Raise his cup to me?
My lords and gentles . . . Dogs of Wales,
Own you no fealty?

Meat and fish and every dish
Delightful to the sense
I here perceive, but in yourselves
A devilish pretence.

My lords and gentles! Treacherous curs,
Will you not drink to me?
Where is a bard to praise my deeds
And sing my victory?

Pale of cheek the noble Welsh
Looked around; in dread
And in fury met their eyes;
Not a word was said,

Conversation ceased forthwith,
Not a breath was heard.
White of head, from near the door
Arose an ancient bard.

'Here, O King, is one will sing
Thy deeds that so inspire.'
Weapons clashed, the dying gasped,
As he swept the lyre.

'Weapons clash, the dying gasp,
The sun sinks in lakes of gore.
Before the beasts of night a feast
Hast thou spread, my lord.

Piled like sheaves at harvest-time
Lie thousands put to the sword,
And they that live weep as they glean.
This is thy work, my lord.'

Out! To the stake! The king's command.
That was exceeding hard.
A softer song is what we need.
Arose a youthful bard.

'O, softly blows the evening breeze
O'er Milford, off the sea.
In it moan the grief of widows,
Maidens' misery.

Bear ye no children to be slaves,
Ye mothers, do not nurse . . .'
Him to the stake the king dismissed
As brusquely as the first.

But recklessly, unbidden too,
A third rose in his stead.
The theme itself sang from the harp
And this is what it said:

'The brave have perished in the fight -
Mark thou my words, O King -
No bard of Wales will praise thy name,
None stoop to such a thing.

The harp preserves their memory -
Mark thou my words, O King -
A curse on thy head is every song
The bards of Wales shall sing.'

We shall see! The king commands,
And dreadful is his word,
That any bard who will not sing
His praise shall not be spared.

His henchmen left to course the land
At the king's behest.
And so in high Montgomery
Took place the famous feast.

Edward the king, the English king,
Homeward spurred his grey.
All round the pyres lit up the sky
Of those that said him nay.

'Tis said five hundred went to die,
Went singing to their doom;
None could bring themselves to sing
To English Edward's tune.

What is that sound? In London's streets
Who is it sings so late?
The Lord Mayor's life is forfeit if
The king is kept awake.

Now silence deep: not one fly's wing
Within or without is stirred.
The king lies waking - risks his head
Who utters but a word!

'Let there be music! Fife and drum,
And let the trumpet bray!
The curses of that feast in Wales
Ring in my ears this day.'

But o'er the sound of fife and drum
And brazen trumpet's clang
Five hundred voices raise the song
That the martyrs sang.

(Translated by Bernard Adams)