| Praise of Hywel, Dean of Bangor | |
| Lord who performs the office of a canon, comparable to Mordeyrn | |
| and Dewi in the land of enchantment, | |
| Cybi of heavenly wealth, | |
| 4 | companions of Simon and Jude. |
| He has been blessed just like Saint Jude, of the kindred | |
| of Gwinau Dau Freuddwyd, | |
| Saint Silin, of frankincense[–scented] hearth, | |
| 8 | psalm of Saint Elien, holy cleric. |
| A ruler, a holy prophet, descended from Brân, there's one man | |
| in Bangor in an ermine gown — | |
| a foam–coloured whitewashed house with a fine organ — | |
| 12 | adeptly he plays the chancel's chord. |
| My tongue does not sing flattering praise — | |
| no bent ruler will be found next to a straight–edged one — | |
| it won't conceal from Hywel a fair, lovely life–course | |
| 16 | through pure and fluent poetic talent. |
| I've found a supporter (peaceful are the frequent visits), | |
| he'll not let anyone bellow falsely at me (a truly Welsh favour), | |
| no nine men will solicit him in earnest nor challenge him yonder | |
| 20 | if he becomes angry, prelate lord. |
| He will have in Gwynedd splendid, emboldening mead, | |
| he loves him who enlightens him, noble lord, | |
| it is not brief, the manly praise that he earns in Môn, | |
| 24 | land of poets, my poetical Dean. |
| The genial, dignified man's not base, | |
| my patron is a handsome poet of powerful words, | |
| this is no brittle, senile opinion in the mind, | |
| 28 | without the man of Gwynedd, the very image of a poet, there'd be no world at all. |
| There's no lord alive beneath the stars who compares | |
| with my brave–speared ruler of dazzling lineage, blessed one whose life is courageous, | |
| a bold, bright–eyed hawk, proud and lively, | |
| 32 | is not the same as a wren–chick crossing the fields. |
| The loud utterance of a lowly minstrel | |
| is not the same as the admirable manner of an eloquent man, | |
| the prominence of a boyish youngster is not the same as that of an elder, | |
| 36 | harvested wheat is not the same as scorched barley. |
| Wine from the rim of a carved cup is not the same as mountain whey, | |
| a peacock, feather–fleeced, is not the same as a wolf, | |
| it's not like Bleddyn, a man not known for his musical talent, | |
| 40 | that a skilful man will sing a song like Cynddelw. |
| No gentle Welshman (this is truly frightening), | |
| knows how to reward suppliants in the manner of Rhydderch, | |
| silencing cries, except Hywel, the learned canon, | |
| 44 | lord of Môn, a brilliant, noble Dean. |