t spirit, the bull of battle. {155d}

LIV.

Together arise the expert warriors,
And the stranger, {155e} the man with the crimson robe, pursue;
The encampment is broken down by the gorgeous pilgrim, {156a}
Where the young deer were in full melody. {156b}
Amongst the spears of Brych {156c} thou couldst see no rods; {156d}
With the base the worthy can have no concord; {156e}
Morial {156f} in pursuit will not countenance their dishonourable deeds,
With his steel blade ready for the effusion of blood.

LV.

Together arise the associated {156g} warriors,
Strangers to the country, their deeds shall be proclaimed;
There was slaughtering with axes and blades, {157a}
And there was raising large cairns over the heroes of toil.

LVI.

The experienced {157b} warriors met together,
And all with one accord sallied forth; {157c}
Short were their lives, long is the grief of those who loved them;
Seven times their number of Lloegrians had they slain;
After the conflict their wives {157d} raised a scream; {157e}
And many a mother has the tear on her eyelash.

LVII.

No hall was ever made so faultless;
Nor was there a lion so generous, a majestic lion on the path, so kind
{158a}
As Cynon of the gentle breast, the most comely lord.
The fame {158b} of the city extends to the remotest parts;
It was the staying {158c} shelter of the army, the benefit of flowing
melody. {158d}
Of those whom I have seen, or shall hereafter see
On earth, engaged in arms, the battle cry, and war, {159a} the most
heroic was he,
Who slew the mounted ravagers with the keenest blade;
Like rushes did they fall before his hand.
O son of Clydno, {159b} of lasting {159c} fame! I will sing to thee
A song of praise, without beginning, {159d} without end.

LVIII.

After the feast of wine and the banquet of mead,
Enriched with the first fruits of slaughter,
The mother of Spoliation, {159e}
Was the energetic Eidol; {159f}
He honoured the mount of the van, {160a}
In the presence of Victory.
The hovering ravens,
Ascend in the sky; {160b}
The foremost spearmen around him thicken, {160c}
Like a crop of green barley, {160d}
Without the semblance of a retreat.
Warriors in wonder shake their javelins,
With pouting and pallid lips,
Caused by the keenness of the destructive sword;
From the front of the banquet, deprived of sleep
They vigorously spring forth, {161a} upon the awaking
Of the mother {161b} of the Lance, the leader