The Lament of Llywarch Hen
Wooden staff, the time has come Of the fall of leaf, autumn. Bracken reddens; all those men Who praised Llywarch Hen are dumb.
Ere my back was bent, I led Men in war; that is ended. Straight and tough, my spear was good, Sure to draw first blood, bright red.
Wooden staff, now I have no Smooth white arm for my pillow. Not one slender one, or sly, Waits to watch where I might go.
Ere my back was bent, I had More than one canty comrade. All the lusty men of Wales Drew me free what ales they had.
Wooden staff, my bed is hard; Stubble pales; birds fly southward. No one visits me, no girl; No man hails me, churl or bard.
Ere my back was bent, I once Took delight in bay stallions, Raced and rode with Llawr and Gwen, Two upstanding men, my sons.
Wooden staff, when Llawr and Gwen Fell in fight, I was broken. Field is barren, fire is cold For all sonless older men.
Coughing, misery, old age Rack me now, do me damage. Carrion am I, no less, In my wilderness or cage.
From the hour he left the womb Llywarch carried one heirloom, Grief and labor, a great load Down his lonely road of doom.