Praise of Owain Glyndwr

Not for the faint-hearted:

 

Praise of Owain Glyndwr

 

Strong magic, strident motion –

Praise Mair – a noble’s portion.

Good prayer: gods protect

The black bull, lord elect.

Fair is your vale, fierce lord

Pywer Lew, Powys’ sword.

Unworthy, we, to find fault

With the world: proud fate

Favours Owain, peacock true,

Fetlock-deep in bloody slough,

Bold as Bran. Barons grim

All are worthless, but for him:

They bent the knee, white of feather

To his raven father’s father,

And when his sire sallied forth

He leapt the Dee and rent the earth:

Hiriell, the Wrath of Wales.

Weigh other Welshmen in the scales

To find them wanting. Wind, blow

These butterflies! This I know:

From woman’s womb, the best boy

In Powys, full of courtly joy,

Was Owain, black as any bird

And full of praises for a bard:

Never a bully, nor a snob,

Never known to jibe or snub

Or steal a toy, or lie, or slight

Another. He would not smite

Or punch. He gave no pain

To other boys for selfish gain,

Nor crooked a finger, muttered never,

Would not say boo, was prudent ever.

 

Yet, reaching manhood, watch him go

Unflinchingly to slash the foe.

Upon his horse he rides the track,

Man and steed robed in black,

Lance uplifted to the socket

At the shoulder of his jacket

Capped in mail, with helmet fine –

Generous, too, at pouring wine –

And as you tumble to the heather

The helm he doffs bears a feather

Plucked from a flamingo’s wing,

Coloured crimson. He could wring

The Berwick blood he spilt

Out in gallons, up to the hilt

For Gregory, in Scottish gore,

And felling every horse of war

That faced him, till the shattered shields

Floated on the bloodsoaked fields.

The second rout, fraught with fear

Saw his fury smash his spear:

Retreating then, in grim disgrace,

Scotland dare not show its face,

Some screaming, wretched others,

Warlords weeping for their mothers,

Bleating all, like hobbled goats:

Thus came terror to the Scots.

The path was slick with blood and froth

Fit to slake the wolves of wrath,

And grass or dock never grew

Upon the kerns that Owain slew.

When Berwick fell, Owain’s sword

Reaped in gold its own reward.

 

Source material: Poem by Iolo Goch, paraphrased by Giles Watson. An admirer of Owain, and most likely the Welsh lord’s court poet, Iolo Goch wrote this poem at some time after 1385. At that time, Owain was still ostensibly loyal to the English crown under Richard II, although a cogent argument has been made by Alex Gibbon, The Mystery of Jack of Kent and the Fate of Owain Glyndwr, Stroud, 2004, that Owain was biding his time until the conditions were right for rebellion, and that Iolo was colluding with him. Nevertheless, Owain made a name for himself as a ferocious knight, fighting for the Englishman Sir Gregory Sais in Berwick in 1384, and then waging war in Scotland in 1385. Legend has it that on the morning after Owain was born, his father’s horses were found standing up to their fetlocks in blood, prognosticating a violent future. I have alluded to this tradition in my paraphrase.

 

Done