(. . . although, to be honest, Dyfed is about the only part of Wales we are *not* going through. But there are mountains. And much cattle, and toothsome sheep - had some last night!)
The War-Song of Dinas Vawr
by
Thomas Love Peacock (1785–1866)
THE MOUNTAIN sheep are sweeter,
But the valley sheep are fatter;
We therefore deem’d it meeter
To carry off the latter.
We made an expedition; 5
We met an host and quell’d it;
We forced a strong position
And kill’d the men who held it.
On Dyfed’s richest valley,
Where herds of kine were browsing, 10
We made a mighty sally,
To furnish our carousing.
Fierce warriors rush’d to meet us;
We met them, and o’erthrew them:
They struggled hard to beat us, 15
But we conquer’d them, and slew them.
As we drove our prize at leisure,
The king march’d forth to catch us:
His rage surpass’d all measure,
But his people could not match us. 20
He fled to his hall-pillars;
And, ere our force we led off,
Some sack’d his house and cellars,
While others cut his head off.
We there, in strife bewildering, 25
Spilt blood enough to swim in:
We orphan’d many children
And widow’d many women.
The eagles and the ravens
We glutted with our foemen: 30
The heroes and the cravens,
The spearmen and the bowmen.
We brought away from battle,
And much their land bemoan’d them,
Two thousand head of cattle 35
And the head of him who own’d them:
Ednyfed, King of Dyfed,
His head was borne before us;
His wine and beasts supplied our feasts,
And his overthrow, our chorus. 40
The War-Song of Dinas Vawr
by
Thomas Love Peacock (1785–1866)
THE MOUNTAIN sheep are sweeter,
But the valley sheep are fatter;
We therefore deem’d it meeter
To carry off the latter.
We made an expedition; 5
We met an host and quell’d it;
We forced a strong position
And kill’d the men who held it.
On Dyfed’s richest valley,
Where herds of kine were browsing, 10
We made a mighty sally,
To furnish our carousing.
Fierce warriors rush’d to meet us;
We met them, and o’erthrew them:
They struggled hard to beat us, 15
But we conquer’d them, and slew them.
As we drove our prize at leisure,
The king march’d forth to catch us:
His rage surpass’d all measure,
But his people could not match us. 20
He fled to his hall-pillars;
And, ere our force we led off,
Some sack’d his house and cellars,
While others cut his head off.
We there, in strife bewildering, 25
Spilt blood enough to swim in:
We orphan’d many children
And widow’d many women.
The eagles and the ravens
We glutted with our foemen: 30
The heroes and the cravens,
The spearmen and the bowmen.
We brought away from battle,
And much their land bemoan’d them,
Two thousand head of cattle 35
And the head of him who own’d them:
Ednyfed, King of Dyfed,
His head was borne before us;
His wine and beasts supplied our feasts,
And his overthrow, our chorus. 40
no subject
Date: 2009-09-13 07:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-13 07:07 am (UTC)I envy you in the most wonderful way. Iechyd da!
no subject
Date: 2009-09-13 11:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-13 05:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-14 12:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-13 08:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-13 11:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-13 12:14 pm (UTC)This lead to a orgiastic flury of cattle raiding (I cattle raided someone's car by wrapping a string of pink yard I had around the front bumper, while hanging onto one of the front wheels & yelling, "MINE! MINE CAR!!"...) Near the end of the week there was raid of spectacular proportions, which caused one of the women from our camp (the Babylonians)to rush out of her tent, whirrling a golf club over her head, while shouting, "Waittaminute, I'm Their Lawyer"!
_____
*Yes, I am that kind of a Baptist.
no subject
Date: 2009-09-13 08:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-13 12:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-13 03:16 pm (UTC)While John's books are profounder,
Tom's have more varied matter;
I therefore think it sounder
To carry off the latter.
I wander in to visit
For coffee at eleven,
Say, "That's a new one, is it?"
And leave with six or seven.
My promise is mere feigning:
I never do return them;
And he has stopped complaining --
I think he thinks I burn them.
Indeed,when he tried writing
To state his loss and ire,
His books themselves suppplied my shelves
And his letters lit my fire.
-- Audrey L. Laski
(For a New Statesman competition in 1955.)
no subject
Date: 2009-09-13 04:31 pm (UTC)Scotland the Brave
Date: 2009-09-14 07:48 am (UTC)Jane