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elegy.html
              Translation of

The Elegy for Llywelyn ap Gruffudd
               (died 1282)

Gruffudd ap yr Ynad Coch



The heart of oak is cold
behind the gates of Aberffraw.

The hand that gave gold

is still now – I cannot wear it,

the apparel he put about me.

This grief for my lord is a cloud on my soul

This grief for the fate that his wounds brought us

confounds the red spear of Cadwalader’s keeping.


For us now the darkness,

the hatred of Saxons

A time of lamenting

in the life left to us

A time now to praise him

to think of his glory

to reproach even God

who has left us without him;

For him life eternal.


What now for us left

with a full load of weeping?

The dark hand that felled him

haunts his kingdom; his hall now the grave.

A long vista of fear stretches before us.


Lord Christ deliver him

for the sake of our sorrow,

Heavy the sword blows that struck him to earth

Heir of brave princes, his flame

burned brightly: strong Lion of Gwynedd

Great was the need of the strength of his throne

All Britain was struck down with Nantcoel’s defender.


Tears running on maiden’s cheeks

Blood flowing from warriors gashes

and trodden into the mire of our land.

Widows keening with hearts broken

and sons without fathers, their homes

-charred ruins – fired and looted.

Not since Camlann has there been such weeping

Gone is our mainstay, his golden hair

stained with a death blow O Llywelyn!

My mind cannot grasp it.


Hearts chilled by a pall of fear

Our life-will withers like weeds in Winter

as the wind dashes the rains upon us

and the oaks clash

and the sea’s crash scours the land:

Do you not see?

The Sun falls and the stars are shrinking!

Can you not believe our world is ending?

O God, why does the sea not rush over the shore?

Why should this life trouble us more?

Wretched we are and clasped in fear

with no-where to turn and terror’s grip tightening

and only life’s shackles to loosen our burden.


All his followers now cast down,

his lords and his servants,

the weak and the strong, all of us suffer

Why should we value a head on our shoulders

when he is without one?


His head has fallen and with it our pride

Fear and surrender are all we have left

His head has fallen – a dragon’s head

Noble it was , fierce to our foes

His head is stuck with an iron pole

The searing pain of it runs through my soul,

This land is empty – our spirit cut down.

His head had honour in nine hundred lands

Proud king, swift hawk, fierce wolf

True Lord of Aberffraw

His only refuge

                        the Kingdom of Heaven.



First published in AGENDA (Vol 26, No. 3) and reprinted together with the original and the translations of Gwyn Williams and Tony Conran in Materion Dwyieithog/Bilingual Matters (1989).

Discussion of the context and limitations of this version can be found on my blog HERE

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