The Owl
It's a pity that the fair owl
on a branch will not be silent.
It will not let me say my prayers,
4 it will not be quiet as long as the stars are visible.
I cannot sleep a wink or rest at all,
woe [is me] from the hindrance.
It seeks a house on the bats' ridge
8 to shelter from showers of rain and snow.
Every night, [it gives] me very little thrill,
in my ears, pennies of memory,
when I close, painful greeting,
12 my eyes, respected lords,
this wakes me, I have not slept,
the song of the owl and its voice,
and its constant hoarse shout and its screech
16 and its vain peroration from its mouth.
From then until the break of day,
As true as I live, unhappy vigour,
it sings, sad wailing,
20 'hoo-di-hoo', lively exclamation.
Great energy, by Christ,
it incites the dogs of the night.
It's a slut, with its endless double call,
24 big-headed one, miserable call;
broad forehead, breast the colour of rowan,
old wide-eyed mouser;
busy one of contemptible appearance,
28 rotten is its court, tin-coloured.
Loud is its babble throughout the woods.
What an awful song above the chains of the trees,
and its face, visage of a mortal being,
32 and its form, ghoul of the birds.
Every bird attacks it,
filthy outcast. Isn't its existence a monstrosity?
This one is more loquacious on the hillside
36 at night than the nightingale from the slope.
During the day it doesn't shift its head
from a big hollow tree, wise behaviour.
It would howl freely, I know its face,
40 it is Gwyn ap Nudd's bird.
Chopsy witch singing to thieves,
a curse on its tongue and its tune!
In order to drive the owl
44 away from me I have a song:
whilst I suffer the ice [of winter]
I will light a fire in every ivy bush.