| The Roebuck | |
| You roebuck with fleeing haunch, | |
| sky-flier with grey-white leggings, | |
| take this swift and refined letter | |
| 4 | on your bare rump for the sake of God in heaven. |
| With your leaping breast you are the fastest | |
| messenger, sweet singer. | |
| By God, roebuck, I must ask | |
| 8 | you to do the work of a love-messenger for me. |
| Lair of heather above the white rock, | |
| the untamed head grazes on meadow grass. | |
| Fine courteous requester of payment, | |
| 12 | leaper of the hillside, his antler is sharp. |
| He leaps like a bare-rumped lamb | |
| up the slope, fair is his face and nostril. | |
| My fine servant, you will not be betrayed, | |
| 16 | no dogs will kill you, tall fair baron. |
| Praiseworthy destination, don't let any greyhound | |
| catch you after heat. | |
| You are my noble-natured love-messenger | |
| 20 | and my poet to fair noble Dyddgu. |
| Take this journey to her father's house, | |
| you lovely trotter. | |
| Don't fear a sharp arrow, | |
| 24 | nor any pursuing dog if you get a chance to leap. |
| Watch out for Pali, the red-legged dog, | |
| and Iolydd, the bronze-red dog. | |
| If what sounds like the cry of hunting dogs | |
| 28 | comes after you to the land of Tywyn |
| make for the bog, chooser of hindrance, | |
| have resort to Ovid's method. | |
| Jump over an old gap | |
| 32 | to the open field and don't linger any longer. |
| You who have ever been foster son of the fair trees of the glen, | |
| slim-legged one, demand a kiss. | |
| Beware, don't let yourself be seen, | |
| 36 | run over hill to a clump of ferns. |
| Come by night past the ditches | |
| under the branches of the forest and its trees | |
| with a kiss for me, the straight-backed girl won't disappoint me, | |
| 40 | [from] Dyddgu the colour of snowflakes with bright plaits. |
| Make for that place, you splendid roebuck, | |
| where I would love, where I long to be. | |
| No hand will skin you, be well and carefree, | |
| 44 | your coat will not clad an old Englishman, |
| nor your antlers, my dear one, nor your hooves, | |
| and the false Jealous One will not have your flesh. | |
| May God, wise guardian, | |
| 48 | and Cynfelyn's arm keep you from treachery. |
| I too, if I live to be old, | |
| will bless you, hip-coloured face. | |