Dafydd ap Gwilym's Third Debate Poem

	Gruffudd Gryg, a provision of satire,

	poetry's red moor hen, cheating and surly,

	a fault on your beard in Arfon,

4	and on your lip, a fault in Anglesey.

	You're wise, God was good to you,

	supporting you whilst twisting your neck [with a stutter].

	You flee strangely from the minstrels,

8	shut it, you no–good scrap of food.

	Some enemy to poets, very insistent,

	control your ridiculous arrogance.

	Shameless intent, foolish impudence,

12	curb, put an end to your falsehood.

	One who invites support, you were twisted,

	give up your boasting, you black bastard.

	Woe to you that you can't do this boldly,

16	deny the couplet, you cobweb,

	which you said about two chicks, rather suspicious,

	an eagle and a hen, you hopeless wretch.

	A word of unjust and false arrogance,

20	your verse is rough, you crooked black man.

	Your journey to a wonderful jolly court is unhappy,

	you pointless man, they call you

	the thorn of poetry, pitiful in appearance,

24	or the thistle in the language of Gwynedd's people.

	And keep the wrong, if anyone joins you

	in journey on sea and on land,

	sad journey, you there will do

28	nothing else but argue.

	Everyone is brave, under the pleasant shelter of the grove,

	in absence, fear of a foul face.

	It'll be nasty for you, Gruffudd,

32	a stern test, if the play turns sour.

	I'm equal, your cowardly manner is hateful,

	in your land, to you any time;

	I'm better than you, cheating pulls you together,

36	I'm fervent in my claims, in my own country.

	I will go to Gwynedd, there will be many feasts for me,

	despite you, you powerless black man.

	If your opinion of me is firm,

40	I will get gems and gold in Anglesey.

	And you, from where you're found suspicious

	if you come to the southern land,

	you will be, angry opinioned competitor,

44	a badger in bag, unsteady arm.

	Where I hear, without twisting bright love,

	an ugly word of your poem, you dreadful stammerer,

	I'll pay back, the slightest prevention,

48	threefold in verse to you, Gruffudd.

	Everyone will not be in agreement about me,

	(if I am mistaken in this, may I not be here in the summer),

	either for fearing you, you didn't create a good address to me,

52	nor loving you, until you deserve to be loved.

	I know well enough, gentle and just relative of Menw,

	the claim that you are not of the same name

	as bellows–arsed Rhys Meigen,

56	the fat–snare, lacking clear speech.

	There was no praise for the way you were,

	be careful in case you become Rhys, your boast is foolish,

	twisted and dead, one who is used to creating fear,

60	who was killed by poetry, shape of a wax neck.

	This will be in insult to your name,

	I came well, I was the artist of woe.