Giles Watson's poetry and prose
Satire on Rhys Meigen
Satire on Rhys Meigen
Dychan i Rys Meigan
Cretinous bungler, ass-bray – gormless clod,
Coy bum-sniffer of Gwalchmai,
Curs howl when he comes their way,
Curses dog him every day.
Consider Rhys Meigen: grim display – turd
Causing nausea. May he stray
Far, wayward dog, and stay
Away, cloying milksop of May.
Uncouth, deceptive, beast-grey – boaster
From Dyfi to Menai,
Chuntering, half-sized, splay-
Legged fake-in-the-making,
Coward who could never gain a lord’s love,
Completely useless, it’s plain,
He croons a vile wormwood strain,
Knavish ape, mouth like a drain,
Crude of tongue, corpse-cold brain – you blab
Flattery, and declaim,
Blatantly inviting blame,
Crappy beggar, spreading stain
Of crassness, crafty, pale, nasty bastard,
Boor on a course to fail,
Brazen braggart with baleful
Eyes. Mood: abrasive. Breath: stale.
Randy, crapulous llatai – getter of
Leprous ladies, craven pain
In the backside, shit-ingrained
Dog, paddle away, I pray.
His pantaloons look gay – coracle hides
Patched in motley. Its a strain
Getting him to write in plain
Welsh. Pen? Sword? He runs away.
Corpse-hackney, rotten hack-writer – filthy
Bard with lips that writhe
Like slugs. Men! Hide your wives!
His scuttling bugs will blight your lives.
From curdy mouth to clasping arse – his jaws
A clench of quarrels, fat farce,
His troughlike gullet set to fart
Verses, tettered travesty of art,
Nasty, blotch-legged, uncouth – with bulges
In his britches. Blessed, forsooth,
He who hangs the soup-wet youth,
Tomcat-stealthy, snide, uncouth,
Beer-drunken, slick of lip – squealing piglet –
He vomits, and lets it drip
On his fusty clothes. This
Codpiece of his, stained with piss,
Shows him up: a vagabond – and lice
Bite him on his shitten hand,
His hair: imp-trimmed. Taste: bland.
Lo! He comes, and blights the land.
Beam-legged, spindleshanked – no Cai Hir –
Battle-shy flatterer,
Sucker of rancid fat,
Neck like rawhide, face: flat
And leathery, like a worm – yeast-drinker –
Legs feeble as a lamb’s,
Gut like butter badly churned,
Wire-haired, hankering for the womb.
He sang, feeble as a mouse – mischievous music
Rhyming rodent of the shithouse,
A composition any louse
Would blush to hear, the soused,
Pock-marked Rhys Meigen, courter of gallows.
Choose rope or banishment, or else you’ll burn,
Maggot-footed, fat-basted travesty,
You gnash your green teeth, you rage, you gurn,
You cram your mouldy gob, you glutton,
Boar-gobbler, mutton-mouthed slurper, you turn
My stomach! Marrow-licker, slick drinker
Of rancid fat – I exorcise, by Cyndeyrn,
Your salmon-coloured, puckered lips, arse
Of greediness, engulfing all. I spurn
Your creamy-headed cock, coward-soldier
Standing at wonky attention. Dinbyrn
Scorns your lousy pelt, your vile, vulpine face,
Your complexion, fleshy and taciturn,
Your leech-like trousers, constipated flesh,
Your withered expression, your searching, stern
Lifeless eyes, your scurrilous snarl, scurrying,
Cat-clawed gait. Your meat-mashing mouth earns
No praise, drinker of dregs of sour cider
Made of crabs. Your fatuous, muck-fed face burns
Red as beetroot, as you bash out woeful
Awdls and englyns, glibly as you churn
Out crap into your britches. The tavern
Is emptied. You rave on, and never learn.
Poem by Dafydd ap Gwilym, paraphrased by Giles Watson, 2011. It is said that Dafydd composed this satire in response to an englyn written by Rhys Meigen, in which he claimed to have slept with Dafydd’s mother. The tradition affirms that when Dafydd’s satire was performed in front of him, Rhys dropped down dead. It is certainly true that many people believed that a well-penned satire could bring death on its victim, and the story is supported by a reference made by Dafydd in a debate with Gruffudd Gryg, in which he warns his rival: “be careful lest you end up twisted and dead, like Rhys, slain by poetry”. However, it is more likely that this satire was really part of a comparatively normal ritual: the bardic debate, in which bards were expected to insult one-another inventively as a form of entertainment. Gwalchmai was a 12th Century court poet from Gwynedd, Cai Hir was King Arthur’s prodigiously tall nephew, Cyndeyrn was a saint, and it is thought that Dinbyrn was a traditional Welsh hero.
My thanks to Huw Davies for pointing out that poetic insult competitions are still a part of the Mari Lwyd ceremony: an observation which led me to improve one line of this paraphrase (see the discussion below).
Satire on Rhys Meigen
Satire on Rhys Meigen
Dychan i Rys Meigan
Cretinous bungler, ass-bray – gormless clod,
Coy bum-sniffer of Gwalchmai,
Curs howl when he comes their way,
Curses dog him every day.
Consider Rhys Meigen: grim display – turd
Causing nausea. May he stray
Far, wayward dog, and stay
Away, cloying milksop of May.
Uncouth, deceptive, beast-grey – boaster
From Dyfi to Menai,
Chuntering, half-sized, splay-
Legged fake-in-the-making,
Coward who could never gain a lord’s love,
Completely useless, it’s plain,
He croons a vile wormwood strain,
Knavish ape, mouth like a drain,
Crude of tongue, corpse-cold brain – you blab
Flattery, and declaim,
Blatantly inviting blame,
Crappy beggar, spreading stain
Of crassness, crafty, pale, nasty bastard,
Boor on a course to fail,
Brazen braggart with baleful
Eyes. Mood: abrasive. Breath: stale.
Randy, crapulous llatai – getter of
Leprous ladies, craven pain
In the backside, shit-ingrained
Dog, paddle away, I pray.
His pantaloons look gay – coracle hides
Patched in motley. Its a strain
Getting him to write in plain
Welsh. Pen? Sword? He runs away.
Corpse-hackney, rotten hack-writer – filthy
Bard with lips that writhe
Like slugs. Men! Hide your wives!
His scuttling bugs will blight your lives.
From curdy mouth to clasping arse – his jaws
A clench of quarrels, fat farce,
His troughlike gullet set to fart
Verses, tettered travesty of art,
Nasty, blotch-legged, uncouth – with bulges
In his britches. Blessed, forsooth,
He who hangs the soup-wet youth,
Tomcat-stealthy, snide, uncouth,
Beer-drunken, slick of lip – squealing piglet –
He vomits, and lets it drip
On his fusty clothes. This
Codpiece of his, stained with piss,
Shows him up: a vagabond – and lice
Bite him on his shitten hand,
His hair: imp-trimmed. Taste: bland.
Lo! He comes, and blights the land.
Beam-legged, spindleshanked – no Cai Hir –
Battle-shy flatterer,
Sucker of rancid fat,
Neck like rawhide, face: flat
And leathery, like a worm – yeast-drinker –
Legs feeble as a lamb’s,
Gut like butter badly churned,
Wire-haired, hankering for the womb.
He sang, feeble as a mouse – mischievous music
Rhyming rodent of the shithouse,
A composition any louse
Would blush to hear, the soused,
Pock-marked Rhys Meigen, courter of gallows.
Choose rope or banishment, or else you’ll burn,
Maggot-footed, fat-basted travesty,
You gnash your green teeth, you rage, you gurn,
You cram your mouldy gob, you glutton,
Boar-gobbler, mutton-mouthed slurper, you turn
My stomach! Marrow-licker, slick drinker
Of rancid fat – I exorcise, by Cyndeyrn,
Your salmon-coloured, puckered lips, arse
Of greediness, engulfing all. I spurn
Your creamy-headed cock, coward-soldier
Standing at wonky attention. Dinbyrn
Scorns your lousy pelt, your vile, vulpine face,
Your complexion, fleshy and taciturn,
Your leech-like trousers, constipated flesh,
Your withered expression, your searching, stern
Lifeless eyes, your scurrilous snarl, scurrying,
Cat-clawed gait. Your meat-mashing mouth earns
No praise, drinker of dregs of sour cider
Made of crabs. Your fatuous, muck-fed face burns
Red as beetroot, as you bash out woeful
Awdls and englyns, glibly as you churn
Out crap into your britches. The tavern
Is emptied. You rave on, and never learn.
Poem by Dafydd ap Gwilym, paraphrased by Giles Watson, 2011. It is said that Dafydd composed this satire in response to an englyn written by Rhys Meigen, in which he claimed to have slept with Dafydd’s mother. The tradition affirms that when Dafydd’s satire was performed in front of him, Rhys dropped down dead. It is certainly true that many people believed that a well-penned satire could bring death on its victim, and the story is supported by a reference made by Dafydd in a debate with Gruffudd Gryg, in which he warns his rival: “be careful lest you end up twisted and dead, like Rhys, slain by poetry”. However, it is more likely that this satire was really part of a comparatively normal ritual: the bardic debate, in which bards were expected to insult one-another inventively as a form of entertainment. Gwalchmai was a 12th Century court poet from Gwynedd, Cai Hir was King Arthur’s prodigiously tall nephew, Cyndeyrn was a saint, and it is thought that Dinbyrn was a traditional Welsh hero.
My thanks to Huw Davies for pointing out that poetic insult competitions are still a part of the Mari Lwyd ceremony: an observation which led me to improve one line of this paraphrase (see the discussion below).