| The Magpie's Counsel | |
| As I pined for a beautiful girl | |
| in a grove singing of love's charm, | |
| one day, a snatch of sprightly song, | |
| 4 | when the sky was sweet in early April, |
| and the nightingale was on fresh green branches, | |
| and the fair blackbird on battlement of leaves, | |
| poet of the woods, she dwells in a house of trees, | |
| 8 | and a thrush on green treetop |
| before the rain singing clearly | |
| radiant notes on a green coverlet, | |
| and the skylark, tranquil voice, | |
| 12 | dear grey-hooded bird with sober voice, |
| carrying a cywydd | |
| with great effort high into the sky | |
| (hesitant prince, from the open ground | |
| 16 | he climbs up backwards): |
| myself, poet of a tall slender maid, | |
| I was most joyful in a fresh grove, | |
| and my worn heart bore remembrance, | |
| 20 | and my soul was fresh within me, |
| so lovely was it to see trees | |
| wearing new raiment, lively energy, | |
| and shoots of vines and wheat | |
| 24 | after shining rain and dew, |
| and green leaves at the head of the valley, | |
| and thorn bushes fresh and white-tipped. | |
| By heaven, there was also | |
| 28 | the magpie, craftiest bird in the world, |
| building, handy device, | |
| in the middle of a tangled thicket, | |
| [a nest] of leaves and chalky soil, splendid portal, | |
| 32 | assisted by her mate. |
| The haughty sharp-beaked magpie | |
| croaked on the thorn bush, woeful complaint: | |
| 'That's a great tumult, bitter-false song, | |
| 36 | old man, you're making to yourself. |
| By Mary (wise word), you'd be better off | |
| beside the fire, you grey old man, | |
| than here amidst dew and rain | |
| 40 | in the fresh grove in cold rain.' |
| 'You, magpie, your beak is black | |
| (you fierce hellish bird), | |
| be quiet, leave me in peace, | |
| 44 | for God's sake, here at my appointment. |
| It is great love for a pure good girl | |
| that causes me this tumult here.' | |
| 'You are wasting your time, pursuit of vice, | |
| 48 | undignified half-witted grey old man, |
| a foolish sign of the work of love, | |
| jabbering about a beautiful girl.' | |
| 'You too have long work | |
| 52 | and even greater labour (false travail): |
| you cover a nest like a gorse bush | |
| (it will be a thick basket of dry broken twigs). | |
| You've got variegated black plumage, absolutely lovely | |
| 56 | (a wilderness of a face and a crow's head). |
| You are motley, you've got a fair colour | |
| (you've got an awful dwelling, your voice is very hoarse). | |
| And you would learn every fine far-off language, | |
| 60 | mottled-black wing. |
| You, magpie, your head is black | |
| help me, although you are so garrulous, | |
| and give the best counsel | |
| 64 | that you know for my great sickness.' |
| 'Sickly poet, the fair girl does not love you, | |
| there is but one counsel for you: | |
| very solemn song, become a hermit – | |
| 68 | oh foolish man! – and love no more.' |
| By my faith, God be my witness, | |
| if I ever see a magpie's nest, | |
| that because of this she will be left | |
| 72 | neither egg, indeed, nor chick. |