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He glutted black ravens on the rampart of the stronghold, though he was no Arthur.
Aneirin
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Three hundred men hastened forth, wearing gold torques, defending the land – and there was slaughter. Though they were slain they slew, and they shall be honoured to the end of the world; and of all us kinsmen who went, alas, but for one man none escaped.
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From the retinue of Mynyddog they hastened forth; in a shining array they fed together round the wine-vessel. My heart has become full of grief for the feast of Mynyddog, I have lost too many of my true kinsmen.
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The men went to Catraeth, swift was their host, the pale mead was their feast and it was their poison.
Aneirin
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I wish my deadly foe, no worse Than want of friends, and empty purse.
Nicholas Breton
Aneirin
Born:
525
Died:
600
(aged 75)
Bio:
Aneirin or Neirin was an early Medieval Brythonic poet. He is believed to have been a bard or court poet in one of the Cumbric kingdoms of the Old North or Hen Ogledd, probably that of Gododdin at Edinburgh, in modern Scotland.
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