Arthur’s Hidden Men
Welsh, Unknown, Tenth CenturyUnder snow-bent treesand by wintering fire,I rise and give praise;to Morfan, son of Tegid,so robust in his ugliness,no weapon dared strike himnot even in the battle of Camlan*,.as all thought he was servant to a demon.A river of hair roamed his face;moon yellow teeth;a cornered bull.He fought at Camlan,alongside Sandde Angel-Face,so handsome a manno spear came his wayas all thought he was servant to an angel.I send a voice in this ice-dark:to Henwas the Winged, son of Erim,Henbeddestr son of Erim,Scilti the Lightfooted, son of Erim.All three were wind and blur,Never taking a track when theycould gallop over a crest of trees,leap the grey mountain,skim the green stream.Their whole lives,not one rush was bent under their foot.My heart flushes toowith the name of Teithi the Old,son of Gwynham,whose coast-bold castlewas shouldered into sandby the teeth of the sea.Who came to Arthur,was gathered in, welcomed to table,but whose arm was swift to angera man not fit for peace and rest,and for that reasongrew sick with a gloom,that took him down.Ah, and Drem, son of Dremidydd,the Big Seer,his roaming vision loped from Celli Wig in Cornwall,to the black north of Penn Blathaonin ScotlandHe could spy one green budunder the hoare-frosta hundred miles away.He was firm with usefulness.Osla of the Big Knifethe one who placed his vast sheathed bladeacross any river that blocked Arthur’s path.a sterling bridgefor the army of the three kingdoms of Britain.I raise language toGilla Stag-Legthat one who leaptthree hundred acres inone swift bound.Lord, I rememberThe vast-bellied Erwm and Hir Atrwm,and how we would have to raidthree hundred townships just to feed them.They would feast steady till noon,and blaze up again at dusk,shaking their goblets.When they staggered to bed, they yanked off the headsof any wandering vermin,as if no chop had ever glazed their lips.They took the fat, they took the lean,
they took the hot, they took the cold,
they took the sour, they took the sweet,
they took the fresh, they took the salted.If I quiet now, I think I can hear them chomping still.Sol, Gwaddn Osol, and Gwaddn of the Bonfire,that riotous bunch,I raise the glass and remember –Gwallgoig too.Many a village is sleep-sore from his revels.Sugn, son of Sugnedudd,so plagued by heartburnthat he would suck up the oceanwith three hundred proud ships afloat,and gulp it down,till there was nothing but a dry stand.Beloved Cachamwri,Arthur’s own servant.With his terrible iron flail.who could take a barn –robust with thirty ploughs,and grind the cross beams and the posts,and the rafters,to nothing but oat-size crumbs on the floor,No friend of farmers.Gwefl, son of Gwastad,our true Grief Man;When in his blue dream,he would let his bottom lip fall to his belly,and the top he would fit over his headas a cap.A sorrowed mouth,– big enough for the world’s tears.Uchdryd of the Cross-Beard,who would wrap his bristly red beardclear over the fifty rafters of Arthur’s Hall,insulation for a sheep-white winter.Clust, son of Clustfeinad:even when we buried him,seven leagues under dark soil,he could hear an ant wanderfifty miles away, leaving its lair.Ah, Medr son of Medredydd,Gwiawan Cat’s Eye,Cynyr of the Beautiful Beard –Do you think we have forgotten you?Listen across the Crow River at my speech.Medr who could shoot a wrenright through its two legs,Gwiawan who could cut the lidfrom the eye of a gnat without hurting it.Cynyr, of whom it is rumoredgreat Cai is his son.And what of Cai?,Cai of the strange gifting.Nine nights and nine days he could lieunder the breathless waters,a moon-track on the sea bedNine nights and nine days he could livewithout sleepNo doctor could cure a sword-cutdelivered by Cai;He was a man of high skill,as tall as the wood’s highest tree when he chose.When caught by storm,such was his body’s heat,that a whole circle around him would remain dry.When frozen in the iron-numbgullies of Snowdon,we would gather closeround Cai to dry our kindling.Great ones, are you safely gathered in?Let wild fawnalways be at your bow.Let your white-bronze rings and broachesglow by the yellow candleLet the womenwith the dark river hairbe your companions.And I,with my few wintered logs,alone and old,on the snowy hillwith nothing leftbut my praise.
they took the hot, they took the cold,
they took the sour, they took the sweet,
they took the fresh, they took the salted.If I quiet now, I think I can hear them chomping still.Sol, Gwaddn Osol, and Gwaddn of the Bonfire,that riotous bunch,I raise the glass and remember –Gwallgoig too.Many a village is sleep-sore from his revels.Sugn, son of Sugnedudd,so plagued by heartburnthat he would suck up the oceanwith three hundred proud ships afloat,and gulp it down,till there was nothing but a dry stand.Beloved Cachamwri,Arthur’s own servant.With his terrible iron flail.who could take a barn –robust with thirty ploughs,and grind the cross beams and the posts,and the rafters,to nothing but oat-size crumbs on the floor,No friend of farmers.Gwefl, son of Gwastad,our true Grief Man;When in his blue dream,he would let his bottom lip fall to his belly,and the top he would fit over his headas a cap.A sorrowed mouth,– big enough for the world’s tears.Uchdryd of the Cross-Beard,who would wrap his bristly red beardclear over the fifty rafters of Arthur’s Hall,insulation for a sheep-white winter.Clust, son of Clustfeinad:even when we buried him,seven leagues under dark soil,he could hear an ant wanderfifty miles away, leaving its lair.Ah, Medr son of Medredydd,Gwiawan Cat’s Eye,Cynyr of the Beautiful Beard –Do you think we have forgotten you?Listen across the Crow River at my speech.Medr who could shoot a wrenright through its two legs,Gwiawan who could cut the lidfrom the eye of a gnat without hurting it.Cynyr, of whom it is rumoredgreat Cai is his son.And what of Cai?,Cai of the strange gifting.Nine nights and nine days he could lieunder the breathless waters,a moon-track on the sea bedNine nights and nine days he could livewithout sleepNo doctor could cure a sword-cutdelivered by Cai;He was a man of high skill,as tall as the wood’s highest tree when he chose.When caught by storm,such was his body’s heat,that a whole circle around him would remain dry.When frozen in the iron-numbgullies of Snowdon,we would gather closeround Cai to dry our kindling.Great ones, are you safely gathered in?Let wild fawnalways be at your bow.Let your white-bronze rings and broachesglow by the yellow candleLet the womenwith the dark river hairbe your companions.And I,with my few wintered logs,alone and old,on the snowy hillwith nothing leftbut my praise.
* Camlan is the site of Arthur’s final battle
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