Y Gododdin

By Toby Phillips

Again the gaunt trode usward.
A score of horsemen ride,
Dight in fortunes so divine,
And worth a banquet of wine.

One knave came howling,
His sword, red glowing,
Slew himself, blood flowing.
As the Old North sang in high revelry.

“Victory! Victory! Hen Ogledd!
Our men arise. Go forth into battle and slay.”

Hereupon the grounds,
A playground for the perished,
The Saxons lay dead in the fields they cherished.

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