Classic Poem

One boy, Saint Dwyn, my bauble:
His father rues he was born!
Sorrow was bred of fondness,
Lasting pain, lacking a son.
My two sides, dead is my die,
For Siôn y Glyn are aching.
I moan everlastingly
For a baron of boyhood.

A sweet apple and a bird
The boy loved, and white pebbles,
A bow of a thorntree twig,
And swords, wooden and brittle;
Scared of pipes, scared of scarecrows,
Begging mother for a ball,
Singing to all his chanting,
Singing ‘Oo-o’ for a nut.
He would play sweet, and flatter,
And then turn sulky with me,
Make peace for a wooden chip
Or the dice he was fond of.

Ah that Siôn, pure and gentle,
Cannot be a Lazarus!
Beuno once brought back to life
Seven who'd gone to heaven;
My heart's sorrow, it's doubled,
That Siôn's soul is not the eighth.

Mary, I groan, he lies there,
And my sides ache by his grave.
The death of Siôn stands by me
Stabbing me twice in the chest.
My boy, my twirling taper,
My bosom, my heart, my song,
My prime concern till my death,
My clever bard, my daydream,
My toy he was, my candle,
My fair soul, my one deceit,
My chick learning my singing,
My Iseult's chaplet, my kiss,
My strength, in grief he's left me,
My lark, my weaver of spells,
My bow, my arrow, my love,
My beggar, O my boyhood.
Siôn is sending his father
A sword of longing and love.

Farewell the smile on my mouth,
Farewell to my lips' laughter,
Farewell sweet consolation,
Farewell the begging for nuts,
Farewell, far-off the ballgame,
Farewell to the high-pitched song,
Farewell, while I stay earthbound,
My gay darling, Siôn my son.