Giles Watson's poetry and prose
Trouble at a Tavern
Trouble at a Tavern
Trafferth mewn Tafarn
A fine township! I rode in
With squire in tow, and the din
Of diners, entertainers
Jongleurs, knights and retainers
Took my fancy. Why, I think
I stopped, tarried for a drink,
Saw a slim nymph of a girl
At the inn where I regaled
Myself. She was primed to stun
Me: her face a glowering sun.
I lifted my horn to toast,
Bought her booze and a lamb roast,
Called her to my bench, and thought
She looked up for any sport
That I proposed. My dinner
Went cold, for love was in her.
She agreed that we would creep,
Meet when all were fast asleep.
When the air was thick with snores
I crawled from bed on all fours
To find her, proud of my stealth.
It puts strain upon my health
To tell what happened next. Fool!
I got entangled in a stool,
Tripped, spread-eagled, dupe of fate
Flailed about, bashed my pate
On a table, shaved the skin
In a thin layer from my shin:
All of that, no great matter
Had not the stool made clatter
Fit to wake the whole of Wales:
Ah! The sorriest of tales!
Louder than the Brecon bell,
A cacophony from hell
Broke out then: and when my head
Connected with the table, dread
Seized me – I’ll never flatter
A girl again – a brass platter
Crashed to ground, and sad to tell,
The table overturned as well.
To this day, I cringe, tremble,
And hear the platter, like a cymbal
Strike the stones. It resounds,
Waking men, and girls, and hounds.
Near to where I fell, lay two
Stinky English tinkers, who
(Named Hickyn: Jenkyn and Jack)
Feared that I might steal their packs.
Through lips that reeked of stale beer,
One cried out with toothless leer:
“On guard, men! Try to clobber
With your clubs this sly robber!
The daft Taff! He has a mind
To make this din and rob us blind!”
And the ostler, to my cost,
Shouted, aroused the whole host.
Everybody groped around
To catch me. I made no sound,
But cowered in darkness, cursed
My clumsy limbs, prayed, crossed
Myself, relived my error
Time and again, and terror
Gripped me. I called upon Mair:
The situation was dire
Enough. She answered. I crept
Back to my bed, claimed I slept
Through all. I repent! Will God
Have mercy on such a clod?
Poem by Dafydd ap Gwilym, paraphrased by Giles Watson, 2011. There are actually three English tinkers in the original text, but given the low lighting and his state of inebriation, it is the sort of detail which Dafydd might have got wrong, and Hickyn might serve just as well as a surname. Dafydd does not intend to suggest that these are their real names; rather they are the sorts of names a Welshman might expect stereotypical Englishmen to have.
The picture was taken some years ago by my great uncle, Alexander Watson. It shows a misericord from Fairford Church, Gloucestershire. Since the photograph was taken, this carving has been stolen from the church. This is the only photograph of it that I have seen.
Trouble at a Tavern
Trouble at a Tavern
Trafferth mewn Tafarn
A fine township! I rode in
With squire in tow, and the din
Of diners, entertainers
Jongleurs, knights and retainers
Took my fancy. Why, I think
I stopped, tarried for a drink,
Saw a slim nymph of a girl
At the inn where I regaled
Myself. She was primed to stun
Me: her face a glowering sun.
I lifted my horn to toast,
Bought her booze and a lamb roast,
Called her to my bench, and thought
She looked up for any sport
That I proposed. My dinner
Went cold, for love was in her.
She agreed that we would creep,
Meet when all were fast asleep.
When the air was thick with snores
I crawled from bed on all fours
To find her, proud of my stealth.
It puts strain upon my health
To tell what happened next. Fool!
I got entangled in a stool,
Tripped, spread-eagled, dupe of fate
Flailed about, bashed my pate
On a table, shaved the skin
In a thin layer from my shin:
All of that, no great matter
Had not the stool made clatter
Fit to wake the whole of Wales:
Ah! The sorriest of tales!
Louder than the Brecon bell,
A cacophony from hell
Broke out then: and when my head
Connected with the table, dread
Seized me – I’ll never flatter
A girl again – a brass platter
Crashed to ground, and sad to tell,
The table overturned as well.
To this day, I cringe, tremble,
And hear the platter, like a cymbal
Strike the stones. It resounds,
Waking men, and girls, and hounds.
Near to where I fell, lay two
Stinky English tinkers, who
(Named Hickyn: Jenkyn and Jack)
Feared that I might steal their packs.
Through lips that reeked of stale beer,
One cried out with toothless leer:
“On guard, men! Try to clobber
With your clubs this sly robber!
The daft Taff! He has a mind
To make this din and rob us blind!”
And the ostler, to my cost,
Shouted, aroused the whole host.
Everybody groped around
To catch me. I made no sound,
But cowered in darkness, cursed
My clumsy limbs, prayed, crossed
Myself, relived my error
Time and again, and terror
Gripped me. I called upon Mair:
The situation was dire
Enough. She answered. I crept
Back to my bed, claimed I slept
Through all. I repent! Will God
Have mercy on such a clod?
Poem by Dafydd ap Gwilym, paraphrased by Giles Watson, 2011. There are actually three English tinkers in the original text, but given the low lighting and his state of inebriation, it is the sort of detail which Dafydd might have got wrong, and Hickyn might serve just as well as a surname. Dafydd does not intend to suggest that these are their real names; rather they are the sorts of names a Welshman might expect stereotypical Englishmen to have.
The picture was taken some years ago by my great uncle, Alexander Watson. It shows a misericord from Fairford Church, Gloucestershire. Since the photograph was taken, this carving has been stolen from the church. This is the only photograph of it that I have seen.