Elegy for Gruffudd ab Adda

	It is a great splendour by a whitewashed wall,

	where there is the orchard grove of a splendid company,

	that a nightingale sings under apple trees

4	by day and by night,

	fine clear–voiced bird with flowing tune,

	cosy his nest, song of a chick from heaven;

	golden his beak [and] woven songs at the high table,

8	fine sounding clock on fresh green branch.

	When a wild bowman comes

	trampling through the wood, praise of a tree edifice,

	on a grim mission of treachery

12	to destroy the species of the birch trees with four–sided bolt,

	although the trees with their lovely load

	are full of sweet fruit, gift of gladness,

	versecraft will be deeply mournful

16	without the bright jewel of the flowering trees.

	Powys, loveliest fruitful land,

	sweet drinking–horns in fine luxurious taverns,

	was an inhabited orchard

20	before the killing of the learned lad with grey sword.

	Now — woeful bereavement —

	its hawks are bereft of the nightingale of praise.

	This is a land of churls, bardic poets without dignity,

24	with cruel enemies.

	If grief has been heavy for three months,

	— alas! — no alas was ever louder,

	cry of grievous distress,

28	before blade's edge struck where none would wish it.

	Gruffudd with his sweet song, my bird,

	son of Adda, most perfect man,

	every noble man called for him,

32	aristocrat of May's lovely branches,

	and organ whose piercing [sound] is most entertaining

	and dear golden nightingale;

	bee of the land of Gwenwynwyn

36	with true abundant praise, poison came.

	Gruffudd son of Addaf ap Dafydd,

	he is buried in the choir of Dolgellau,

	it was awful that his kinsman struck him

40	with steel in hand, brave in his ferocity.

	He laid a weapon on my brother,

	deep sword–thrust, horrific nature;

	he turned the sword's edge — was it not pitiful? —

44	through the yellow hair of a pure brave man,

	a blow like the stroke of a saw,

	a horrible cut through a lovely skull,

	through the fine hair of a hawk of proud lineage.

48	Alas that his blade was so keen!

	I am angry and shattered,

	a blow like the slaughter of a goose, excessive churlishness.

	Bright cheeks, yellow angel,

52	golden turret, the man is dead.