The Stallion
Petition to the Abbot of Aberconwy on behalf of Lewis ap Madog
With one who safeguards Gwynedd
I would feast on Conwy's bank,
Abbot over eight districts,
Aberconwy, field of vines,
A lord who gives feasts gladly,
Twice the custom, at his board:
Spices in the one man's dish,
An orange for these others.
Thrice a prince's kitchen's worth,
His cook works hard at turning.
Conwy, in a warm valley,
White stream where I'd have fresh wine,
Wine-rich house, shrine of honey,
Passage and pantry below:
In choosing his wines at once
He was best of all nations,
Glyn Grwst and fair Austin's fort,
Green glen of wine in gallons.
Where seek I saints in session?
With him and his fellow monks,
Men numbered with the Romans,
White and red the robes they wear.
If his breast and cope were white,
So dressed he'd pass for bishop.
Under miniver he'd pass,
Should he try, as Rome's Pontiff.
Troublesome task, foolish men,
Competing for position:
For the place he won, this man,
Aberconwy, was leader.
They'd have a thousand small rents,
He wished the rent of Maenon.
For him on Merioneth's face
A band like woodland blossoms,
Soldiers from Maelor to Rhos,
Tegeingl, his close relations.
Lewis ap Madog's trustful,
Steed begged and bestowed for long,
Choosing by the month of May
Fair girl and steed to bear her.
A stag's form, for a cywydd,
Dimple-nosed, loose in his skin,
Nose that will hold my bridle,
Wide muzzle like a French gun,
Bear's muzzle, jaw in motion,
Bridle's loop holding his nose.
Keen eyes that are like two pears
In his head lively leaping,
Two slender and twitching ears,
Sage leaves beside his forehead.
A glazier's glossed his crupper
As if he polished a gem,
His skin like silk new-woven,
Hair the hue of gossamer,
Silken robe of a skylark,
Camlet upon a young stag.
Like the deer, his eye frenzied,
His feet weaving through wild fire,
He was spinning without hands,
Weaving of silk, moved nearer.
Pursuing the thunder's path
And trotting when he chooses
He loosed a leap at heaven,
Sure of his power to fly.
Stout colt chewing the highway,
A fair-bell, flee from his path!
Stars from the road or lightning
Whenever his fetlocks lift,
Frisky on thirty-two nails,
Sparks they are, every nailhead,
A spinner on a hilltop,
Holds the nailheads to the sun,
Sparks flash from each one of them,
Each hoof sewn with eight stitches.
His vigour I'd compare to
A red hind before the hounds:
His mind was fixed on floating,
A most lively beast he was;
If driven to the hayfield,
His hoof will not break eight stalks.
He was a river-leaper,
A roebuck's leap from a snake;
He'd face whatever he wished:
If rafter, try to clear it;
There's no need, to make him leap,
For steel against his belly.
With a keen horseman, no clod,
He would know his intention.
If he's sent over a fence,
He will run, the lord's stallion,
Bold jumper where thorns grow thick,
Full of spikes, in Llaneurgain.
Best ever, when set running,
Fine steed to steal a fair girl.
Here awaits me a maiden,
Fair girl, if I have a horse.
For a hind's form what payment
Betters praise of the slim foal?
With one who safeguards Gwynedd
I would feast on Conwy's bank,
Abbot over eight districts,
Aberconwy, field of vines,
A lord who gives feasts gladly,
Twice the custom, at his board:
Spices in the one man's dish,
An orange for these others.
Thrice a prince's kitchen's worth,
His cook works hard at turning.
Conwy, in a warm valley,
White stream where I'd have fresh wine,
Wine-rich house, shrine of honey,
Passage and pantry below:
In choosing his wines at once
He was best of all nations,
Glyn Grwst and fair Austin's fort,
Green glen of wine in gallons.
Where seek I saints in session?
With him and his fellow monks,
Men numbered with the Romans,
White and red the robes they wear.
If his breast and cope were white,
So dressed he'd pass for bishop.
Under miniver he'd pass,
Should he try, as Rome's Pontiff.
Troublesome task, foolish men,
Competing for position:
For the place he won, this man,
Aberconwy, was leader.
They'd have a thousand small rents,
He wished the rent of Maenon.
For him on Merioneth's face
A band like woodland blossoms,
Soldiers from Maelor to Rhos,
Tegeingl, his close relations.
Lewis ap Madog's trustful,
Steed begged and bestowed for long,
Choosing by the month of May
Fair girl and steed to bear her.
A stag's form, for a cywydd,
Dimple-nosed, loose in his skin,
Nose that will hold my bridle,
Wide muzzle like a French gun,
Bear's muzzle, jaw in motion,
Bridle's loop holding his nose.
Keen eyes that are like two pears
In his head lively leaping,
Two slender and twitching ears,
Sage leaves beside his forehead.
A glazier's glossed his crupper
As if he polished a gem,
His skin like silk new-woven,
Hair the hue of gossamer,
Silken robe of a skylark,
Camlet upon a young stag.
Like the deer, his eye frenzied,
His feet weaving through wild fire,
He was spinning without hands,
Weaving of silk, moved nearer.
Pursuing the thunder's path
And trotting when he chooses
He loosed a leap at heaven,
Sure of his power to fly.
Stout colt chewing the highway,
A fair-bell, flee from his path!
Stars from the road or lightning
Whenever his fetlocks lift,
Frisky on thirty-two nails,
Sparks they are, every nailhead,
A spinner on a hilltop,
Holds the nailheads to the sun,
Sparks flash from each one of them,
Each hoof sewn with eight stitches.
His vigour I'd compare to
A red hind before the hounds:
His mind was fixed on floating,
A most lively beast he was;
If driven to the hayfield,
His hoof will not break eight stalks.
He was a river-leaper,
A roebuck's leap from a snake;
He'd face whatever he wished:
If rafter, try to clear it;
There's no need, to make him leap,
For steel against his belly.
With a keen horseman, no clod,
He would know his intention.
If he's sent over a fence,
He will run, the lord's stallion,
Bold jumper where thorns grow thick,
Full of spikes, in Llaneurgain.
Best ever, when set running,
Fine steed to steal a fair girl.
Here awaits me a maiden,
Fair girl, if I have a horse.
For a hind's form what payment
Betters praise of the slim foal?
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