The Battle of the Trees
The tops of the beech tree
Have sprouted of late
Are changed and renewed
From their withered state.
When the beech prospers
Through spells and lianies
The oak tops entangle
There is hope for the trees.
I have plundered the fern
Through all secrets I spy
Old Math ap Mathonwy
Knew no more than I.
For with nine sorts of faculty
God has gifted me:
I am fruit of fruits
Gathered from nine sorts of trees-
Plum, Quince, Whortle,
Mulberry, Raspberry, Pear,
Black Cherry and White
With sorb in me share.
From my seat at Fefynedd
A city that is strong
I watched the trees and
Green things hasten along.
Retreating from happiness
They would fain be set
In form of thechief
Letters of the alphabet.
Wayfarers wondered
Warriors were dismayed
At renewal of conflicts
Such a Gwydion made;
Under the tongue root
A fight most dread
And another raging
Behind, in the head.
The alders in the front line
Began the affray
Willow and Rowan-tree
Were tardy in array.
The holly, dark green
Made a resolute stand
He is armed with many spear points
Wounding the hand.
With foot beat of the swift oak
Heaven and earth rung
'Stout Guardian of the Door'
His name in every tongue.
Great was the gorse in battle
And the ivy at his prime
The hazel was arbiter
At this charmed time.
Uncouthand savage was the fir
Cruel was the ash tree-
Turns not aside a foot-breath
Straight at the heart runs he.
The birch, though very noble
Armed himself but late
A sign not of cowardise
But of his high estate.
The heath gave consolation
To the toil-spent folk
The long-enduring poplars
In battle much broke.
Some of them were cast away
On the field of fight
Because of holes torn in them
By the enemies might.
Very wrathful was the vine
Whose henchmen are the elms
I exalt him mightily
To rulers of realms.
Strong chieftains were the
Blackthorn with his ill fruit
The unloved whitethorn
Who wears the same suit.
The swift pursueing reed
The broom with his brood
And the furze but ill-behaved
Until he is subdued.
The dower-scattering yew
Stood glum at the fight's fringe
With the elder slow to burn
Amid fires that singe.
And the blessed wild apple
Laughing in pride
From the Gorchan of Maeldrew
By the rock side.
In shelter linger
Privet and woodbine
Inexperienced in warfare
And the courtly pine.
But I, although slighted
Because I was not big
Fought, trees, in your array
On the field of Goddeu Brig.
