Hirlas Owain, Or, The Drinking-Horn Of Owen Poem by Owain Cyfeiliog

Uprose the ruddy dawn of day;
The armies met in dread array
On Maelor Drefred's field :
Loud the British clarions sound,
The Saxons, gasping on the ground,
The bloody contest yield.

By Owen's arm the valiant bled;
From Owen's arm the coward fled
Aghast with wild affright:
Let then their haughty lords beware
How Owen's just revenge they dare,
And tremble at his sight.

Fill the Hirlas horn, my boy,
Nor let the tuneful lips be dry
That warble Owen's praise;
Whose walls with warlike spoils are hung
And open wide his gates are flung
In Cambria's peaceful days.

This hour we dedicate to joy;
Then fill the Hirlas horn, my boy,
That shineth like the sea ;
Whose azure handles, tip'd with gold,
Invite the grasp of Britons bold, ' ''
The sons of liberty.

Fill it higher still, and higher,
Mead will noblest deeds inspire.
Now the battle's lost and won,
Give the horn to Gronwy's son
Put it into Gwgan's hand,
Bulwark of his native land,
Guardian of Sabrina's flood,
Who oft has dy'd his spear in blood

When they hear their chieftain's voice,
Then his gallant friends rejoice;
But when to fight he goes, no more
The festal shout resounds on Severn's winding shore.

Fill the gold-tip'd horn with speed,
(We must drink, it is decreed.)
Badge of honour, badge of mirth,
That calls the soul of music forth !
As thou wilt thy life prolong.
Fill it with metheglin strong.
Gruffudd thirsts, to Gruffudd fill;
Whose bloody lance is us'd to kill;
Matchless in the field of strife,
His glory ends not with his life:
Dragon-son of Cynvyn's race,
Owen's shield, Arwystli's grace.
To purchase fame the warriors flew,
Dir^ and more dire, the conflict grew:
When flush'd with mead, they bravely fought,
Like Belyn's warlike sons, that Edwin's downfall wrought.

Fill the horn with foaming liquor,
Fill it up my boy, be quicker; ;
Hence away, despair and sorrow!
Time enough to sigh to-morrow.
Let the brimming goblet smile,
And Ednyfed's cares beguile;

Gallant youth, unus'd to fear,
Master of the broken spear,
And the arrow-pierced shield,
Brought with honour from the field.
Like an hurricane is he,
Bursting on the troubled sea.
See their spears distain'd with gore !
Hear the din of battle roar !
Bucklers, swords, together clashing,
Sparkles from their helmets flashing !
Hear ye not their loud alarms ?
Hark ! they shout—to arms ! to arms !
Thus were Garthen's plains defended,
Maelor fight began and ended.
There two princes fought, and there,
Was Morach Vorvran's feast exchang'd for rout and fear.

Fill the horn: 'tis my delight,
When my friends return from fight,
Champions of their country's glory,
To record each gallant story—
To Ynyr's comely offspring fill,
Foremost in the battle still;
Two blooming youths, in counsel sage,
As heroes of maturer age ;
In peace, and war, alike renown'd,
Be their brows with garlands crown'd;
Deck'd with glory let them shine,
The ornament and pride of Ynyr's ancient line

To Selyf fill, of eagle-heart,
Skill'd to hurl the fatal dart:
With the Wolf's impetuous force
He urgeth on his headlong course.
To Tudor next, great Madoc's son,
They the race of honour run
Together in the tented field,
And both alike disdain to yield.
Like a lion in the fray,
Tudor darts upon his prey.
Rivals in the feats of war,
Where danger call'd, they rush'd from far:
Till shatter'd by some hostile stroke,
With horrid clang their shields were broke;
Loud as the foaming billows roar,
Or fierce contending winds on Talgath's stormy shore.

Fill the horn with rosy wine,
Brave Moreiddig claims it now,
Chieftain of an ancient line,
Dauntless heart, and open brow.

To the warrior it belongs,
Prince of battles, theme of songs!
Pride of Powys, Mochnant's boast!
Guardian of his native coast!—
But ah ! his short-liv'd triumph's o'er,
Brave Moreiddig is no more!

To his pensive ghost we'll give '.
Due remembrance, while we live
And in fairy fiction dress'd,
Flowing hair, and sable vest,
The tragic Muse shall grace our songs,
While brave Moreiddig's name the mournful strain prolongs.

Pour out the horn, (tho' he desire it not)
And heave a sigh on Morgan's early grave;
Doom'd in his clay-cold tenement to rot,
While we revere the memory of the brave.

Fill again the Hirlas horn.
On that ever-glorious morn,
The Britons and their foes between,
What prodigies of might were seen !
On Gwestyn's plain the fight began;
But Gronwy sure was more than man !
Him to resist, on Gwestyn's plain,
A hundred Saxons strove in vain.
To set the noble Meyric free,
And change his bonds to liberty,
The warriors vow'd. The God of day
Scarce darted his meridian ray,
When he beheld the conquerors steep'd in gore,
And Gwestyn's bloody fight, e'er highest, noon was o'er.

Now a due libation pour
To the spirits of the dead,
Who, that memorable hour,
Made the hostile plain their bed.
There the glitt'ring steel was seen,
There the twanging bow was heard;
There the mighty press'd the green,
Recorded by the faithful Bard.
Madoe there, and Meilir brave,
Sent many a Saxon to his grave.
Their drink was mead; their hearts were true;
And to the head their shafts they drew;
But Owen's guards, in terrible array,
Resistless march along, and make the world give way.

Pour the sweet transparent mead,
(The spear is red in time of need)
And give to each departed spirit
The honour and reward of merit.
What cares surround the regal state,
What anxious thoughts molest the great,
None but a prince himself can know,
And Heav'n, that ruleth kings, and lays the mighty low.

For Daniel fill the horn so green,
Of haughty brow, and angry mien; -
While the less'ning tapers shine,
Fill it up with generous wine.

He no quarter takes, nor gives,
But by spoils and rapine lives.
Comely, is the youth, and brave;
But obdurate as the grave.
Hadst thou seen, in Maelor fight,
How we put the foe to flight!
Hadst thou seen the chiefs in arms,
When the foe rush'd on in in swarms !
Bound about their prince they stood,
And stain'd their swords with hostile blood.
Glorious bulwarks! To their praise
Their prince devotes his latest lays.—
Now, my boy, thy task is o'er;
Thou shalt fill the horn no more,
Long may the King of kings protect,
And crown with bliss, my friends elect;
Where liberty and truth reside,
And virtue, truth's immortal bride!
There may we all together meet,
And former times renew in heav'nly converse sweet!