Morfudd Grown Old

	May God give life, unstinting grace,

	crow with mesmerising voice, to the friar clad in loose horse hair.

	Those who blaspheme this friar who's a shadow

4	of the form of the honoured lord of Rome,

	they deserve no peace,

	bare foot, man whose hair's like a nest of briars,

	the habit is a net wandering the world,

8	like a cross-beam, the blessing of the spirit,

	priest and singer of wise words,

	well does he sing, kite of the glorious God.

	Great is the privilege of his house's charter,

12	ram from heaven's zodiac.

	Fine words flow fluently from his mouth,

	long life to his lip, Mary's wizard.

	He said, harsh-reasoned speech,

16	About the hue of the girl who doesn't often deceive:

	'Take for yourself, chief lord of a hundred,

	a shirt of cambric and crystal;

	wear it, don't take it off for a week,

20	this long-lasting cover of the smooth pampered flesh.'

	– it was excruciating for me, story of a second Deirdre –

	'it will be blacker' – and double woe for me!

	The bald grey slick-talking friar-man,

24	So spoke the black friar about a girl's beauty.

	I would not give up Morfudd,

	Were I the Pope himself, as long as I was a cold lad.

	Now, angry accusations,

28	The Creator himself has made her ugly

	So that in all truth there is no

	Duller grey tress,

	A girl's hue does not last like good gold,

32	Treacherous provision, on the head of a slattern.

	Queen of the land of sleeplessness,

	One whose beauty was the ruination of men,

	She was so strong – a lifetime is one brief waking,

36	It is a dream; how soon life passes!

	A brush on a brewery floor,

	An eldertree, grey and half-barren.

	She was created bewitchingly,

40	Thieving grey witch.

	The old beam of an Irish mangonel,

	A cold summer-house; she was once fair.