Brwydr Mynydd Baddon

By Toby Phillips

The grim North sang,
The murder of Saxons, for battle was there none,
Whenas yuletide come,
The King’s song did drum.

A tale now five score winters old,
That’s head rose dipped in gold,
And caressed the lips each time it was told.

The South too sang,
The pride of the Britons,
Certes they did victor with a few men of martyr,
Slain in the glorious name of Arthur.

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