The Elegy for Llywelyn ap Gruffudd

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.

Comments

  1. Composed by a poet who joined Edward I's army in 1277 - for the sum of £20 - and was suspected of plotting Llywelyn's death 'in the belfry at Bangor' in late 1282. Gruffudd can possibly be identified with one of the Welsh captains who accepted a bribe to surrender Castell y Bere in 1283.

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