| Gruffudd Gryg's Second Debate Poem | |
| He is wild, I don't know whether it is better for me | |
| to see Dafydd ap Gwilym, | |
| a terrifying way to gains, riches from lies and cheating, | |
| 4 | Dafydd is a second Gwenwlydd. |
| He is kind to my face, a ready shoulder, | |
| and nasty and cruel in my absence. | |
| Dafydd said in his false cywydd | |
| 8 | to the men of the south, |
| that I had nothing in my poetry | |
| apart from his learning: he was a teacher. | |
| By St. David, he lied, | |
| 12 | and let me be tested whenever it is wished. |
| He swore that I do nothing with my tongue, | |
| the best man, but deform poetry. | |
| It is clear that I would never wish, I argue, | |
| 16 | to deform a single word of praise. |
| A simple man, his claims are numerous, | |
| Dafydd is very fond of his own voice. | |
| Every uncouth bird takes pleasure, | |
| 20 | in cosy birches, in the beauty of its own voice. |
| Let there be a sad fate, through a knot of words, | |
| for either one of us, | |
| and may his tongue be destroyed, | |
| 24 | wherever he be, who would barter poems. |
| Although my tongue stutters, the energy of compulsions, | |
| in the growth of anger, | |
| it is not the same, but it is a talent, | |
| 28 | there is not a stuttering word in my song, by Mary. |
| A hobby horse in every gathering | |
| which was popular, there was nothing wrong with its appearance, | |
| but draw nearer, its two thighs are stakes, | |
| 32 | it's unpleasant, throwing straight. |
| Truly now, there was never any worse | |
| delusion of weak wood. | |
| The second is the organ at Bangor, | |
| 36 | some play it to make the choir roar. |
| The year, to follow a woeful sound, | |
| pointless sad journey, it came to the town, | |
| everyone from the parish would give an offering from their coffers | |
| 40 | because of the noise made by the leads. |
| The chirping of his earnest wrath in commotion, | |
| the third is Dafydd fat–beard; | |
| his cywyddwas loved in Gwynedd, they say, | |
| 44 | when it was new then. |
| By now, his cywyddis withered, | |
| his work has run wild in the woods. | |
| Let there be a sad fate, through a knot of words, | |
| 48 | for either one of us, |
| and may his tongue be destroyed, | |
| wherever he be, who would barter poems. | |
| Although my tongue stutters, the energy of compulsions, | |
| 52 | in the growth of anger, |
| it is not the same, but it is a talent, | |
| there is not a stuttering word in my song, by Mary. | |
| To get me in a knot of anger, | |
| 56 | secretly, as hundreds were had, |
| he attacked me, he hated seeing me gain anything, | |
| poetry's briber, without warning. | |
| No one would give, if I didn't give, | |
| 60 | a silly trinket for his sulking. |