| Gruffudd Gryg's First Debate Poem | |
| It's a shame that Dafydd is so unwell — | |
| there's an auger of love in him. | |
| It's a strange thing for Dafydd, the rascal, | |
| 4 | the son of Gwilym Gam, the blameless man, |
| the cheeky lad, companion of wrath, | |
| he is languishing with a hundred pains. | |
| Also, the savage son | |
| 8 | is nursing a poem in secret hidden places. |
| His yell is long feeble work, | |
| by God's mother, a Welshman, he says, | |
| is suffering dreadful agony, | |
| 12 | it's amazing that he's still alive. |
| Everywhere, cheeks full of passion, | |
| Mary hears him, his injuries are great, | |
| ruining Dafydd's whole body | |
| 16 | there are pains as numerous as the stars. |
| Woe is me if a sharp spear of yew | |
| is in the leading poet. | |
| Not a battle spear amongst thousands, | |
| 20 | not the spear of St. Anthony's Fire, but a weak spear. |
| Not a spear in the back, an honourable manner, | |
| not a bone disease, but weakness. | |
| Not an attacking spear, it is full of anger, | |
| 24 | not a powerful spear, but the pains of frustration. |
| There are weapons, master of poetic materials, | |
| firmly planted in his heart. | |
| Ten years ago today | |
| 28 | Dafydd said, worthy his song, |
| that there were in him a hundred, maybe, | |
| weapons, metal blows, | |
| arrows, angry obstructions of the mind, | |
| 32 | and he was agitated throughout. |
| He was suffering from a strong feebleness, | |
| according to men, because of that pain. | |
| But it was a pack of lies, the treacherous poet, | |
| 36 | that Dafydd the flatterer declaimed. |
| If it were Arthur, defender like a huge pillar, | |
| who attacked a warband, | |
| it is true, if all of the spears | |
| 40 | were present in a hundred injuries, |
| his battles were wild, | |
| the truth is he wouldn't live a month, | |
| let alone, the fine lad is thin and pale, | |
| 44 | love's servant, he's a weak one. |
| If a Welshman from Anglesey stabbed him hard | |
| with a spear — isn't it woe to him? — | |
| with his fair hand on the shaft of his spear, | |
| 48 | under his broken chest, |
| woe to me if he should live for one long hour of the morning, | |
| his appearance is pitiful; | |
| let alone mentioning, unlovely sense, | |
| 52 | fainting because of many spears. |
| His protestations are the death of him, | |
| his constitution was killed by weapons. | |
| My belief, the witty, wise lad, | |
| 56 | is that although he is boastful, wonderful and excellent, |
| a wise man from another land could cause | |
| a plaint with a reed spear and steadfast treachery. | |
| He is afraid, before the sombre judgement, | |
| 60 | of death by Morfudd's weapons. |