translated by Mary Burdett-Jones
A sad world – there is one who presides – treacherous, wretched, how short man’s life is; what is it worth to him whose judgment is to try and live long if he is caught? Although man has the good things of the world and much gold and men here, this cannot win a longer life, that is certain; Holy God, who carries our yoke, knows that death comes silently, and that when it comes it is a certain border, a fence around which man cannot flee.
Thus I lament the lion of the cubs of a thousand people who, it is sad to say, give a hundred sighs and lament; there is grief over the countenance of Ll?r, Humphrey Llwyd – where is art? – a host here sob at the death of the lion of Robert. Since then yonder is the heir of great grace, the wall of a temple, the heir of Thomas. O God above, it is grievous, an assault which plunders the world. In burying the sun, a brave stag, a painful lesson, alas for the age every day, a heavy load of ice on Denbigh yonder, the climate is cold for a while, the soul of Rhufoniog has failed, after the taking of Llwyd, a grievous vain aim. If there is a bush of an old lineage with its further edge putting forth leaves, Jesus above is taking revenge below heaven on behalf of the seed of old Rossendale.
Alas, gone from above the crowd the anchor of learning and good counsel; is it not sad and infamous to cut the centre of the land of the nation? If he has been buried, the floor of the host of the same people, there is the sleep of the land of Wales after the lion, if it is observed, the same loss as this has wide England. The event went through night and thorns to his people, and every one wept, and with the same countenance laments his widow.
O Holy Mary, too great a chill causes fear in Barbara Llwyd, the daughter of a lord, giving gifts freely, talented, fair Lumley; alas for us that the brightness of an exceptional seed has a black garment around her fair waist. A misfortune for ever if the life of the powerful, cheerful lion has come to an end.
There are children – they manifest the praise – from her and the exceptional Humphrey, a pure, green bush of an orchard, large apples, fruits, five golden ones, three beautiful stags – turn to follow them – and two maidens, of royal blood: one is the fair heir, who has been raised to the nobility, a full true note, Spendian Llwyd, may he have three life spans, a useful measure, the wise, generous lion, following the path of his father; Henry and John of a long lineage, a generous blessing, second and third; his two daughters could be given in time to two knights: one is Jane, a magnificent peahen, the second gem is splendid Lumley.
Their wonderful father went to the house of God in heaven in purple to live perfectly, and to all his men was a bulwark of the people; there is pain at the gap he left, he was a Master with golden leaves, he was an alderman. He knew, the Gwalchmai of men, the arms of everyone, a zealous man of steel. Alas, poor will be the true art, and the grave has closed on the genealogy of the world; no matter the degree, it is melancholy to relate that the education of poets has been been buried. If his lifespan was but one hour, it would be treachery, was not his life short? His brave body is in the oaken cell, the great, vigorous man in the choir of Marchell, and his soul went the same day as his life to joy.
© copyright Mary Burdett-Jones 2025
‘In praise of Humphrey Llwyd: Poems by Gruffudd Hiraethog, Lewis ab Edward and Wiliam Cynwal, with translations by Mary Burdett-Jones’ in Philip Schwyzer (ed.) Inventor of Britain: The Work and Legacies of Humphrey Llwyd (University of Wales Press, 2025), pp. 215-28 (pp. 226-8), and online