The Rattlebag

via No Good Boyo, this English translation of the Dafydd ap Gwilym (approx 1320-1360) poem "Y Rhugl Groen". Enough to make you want to read in the original.

George Borrow devoted a whole chapter of "Wild Wales" to him.

It's a beautiful, day, you're out, hope springing, with an excellent girl (Dafydd was a bit of a lad, to put it mildly) - then something totally ruins the atmosphere and your chances. And you're bloody furious !

The Rattlebag

As I was (easiest praise)
one day of summer
under trees between mountain and field
awaiting my soft-spoken girl,
she came (it's worthless to deny)
to where she had promised, an undeniable moon.
We sat together (splendid topic,
a hesitant thing), the girl and I;
I exchanged (before a claim should fail)
words with an excellent girl.

And as we were thus (she was modest)
the two of us understanding love,
there came (a feebleness bereft of nurturing)
with a cry (some stinking feat)
a small ugly noisy (the bottom of a sack making a sound)
creature in the guise of a shepherd.

And he had (hateful declaration)
a rattle-bag, angry, with a withered cheek, harsh-horned.
He sounded (yellow-bellied lodger)
the rattlebag; woe to the scabby leg!

And then without gaining satisfaction
the fair girl was frightened, woe me!

When she heard (breast made brittle by a wound)
the winnowing of the stones, she would stay no more.

Under Christ, there was never a sound in Christendom
(a sow's fame) as harsh:
a bag sounding on the end of a stick,
a bell's sound of small stones and gravel;
a shaking vessel of English stones making a sound
in a bullock's skin;
a basket of three thousand beetles,
a surging cauldron, a black bag;
guardian of a meadow, cohabitor of grass,
black-skinned, pregnant with dry wood-chips.

It's voice hateful for an old roebuck,
a devil of a bell, with a pole in its crotch.

A scarred scab with a stone-bearing gravel-womb,
may it be buckle-laces.

Coldness be on the shapeless churl,
(amen) who frightened my girl !

Y Rhugl Groen

Fal yr oeddwn, fawl rwyddaf,
Y rhyw ddiwrnod o'r haf
Dan wŷdd rhwng mynydd a maes
Yn gorllwyn fy nyn geirllaes,
Dyfod a wnaeth, nid gwaeth gwad,
Lle'r eddewis, lloer ddiwad.
Cydeiste, cywiw destun,
Amau o beth, mi a bun;
Cyd-draethu, cyn henu hawl,
Geiriau â bun ragorawl.

A ni felly, any oedd,
Yn deall serch yn deuoedd,
Dyfod a wnaeth, noethfaeth nych,
Dan gri, rhyw feistri fystrych,
Salw ferw fach, sain gwtsach sail,
O begor yn rhith bugail.
A chanto'r oedd, cyhoedd cas,
Rugl groen flin gerngrin gorngras.
Canodd, felengest westfach,
Y rhugl groen; och i'r hegl grach!
Ac yno heb ddigoni
Gwiw fun a wylltiodd, gwae fi!
Pan glybu hon, fron fraenglwy,
Nithio'r main, ni thariai mwy.

Dan Grist, ni bu dôn o Gred,
Cynar enw, cyn erwined:
Cod ar ben ffon yn sonio,
Cloch sain o grynfain a gro;
Crwth cerrig Seisnig yn sôn
Crynedig mewn croen eidion;
Cawell teirmil o chwilod,
Callor dygyfor, du god;
Cadwades gwaun, cydoes gwellt,
Groenddu feichiog o grinddellt.
Cas ei hacen gan heniwrch,
Cloch ddiawl, a phawl yn ei ffwrch.
Greithgrest garegddwyn grothgro,
Yn gareiau byclau y bo.
Oerfel i'r carl gwasgarlun,
Amên, a wylltiodd fy mun.