{"collection":"Northern European Mythology","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/neu/celt/fab/fab127.htm","path":"neu/celt/fab/fab127.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/neu/celt/fab/fab127.htm","text":"I. SITTING high upon a hill, battle-inclined is\n My mind, and it does not impel me onward:\n Short is my journey, my tenement is laid waste.\nII. Sharp is the gale, it is bare punishment to live;\n When the trees array themselves in gay colours\n Of summer; violently ill I am this day.\nIII. I am no hunter, I keep no animal of the chase;\n I cannot move about:\n As long as it pleases the cuckoo, let her sing!\nIV. The loud-voiced cuckoo sings with the dawn,\n Her melodious notes in the dales of Cuawg:\n Better is the lavisher than the miser.\nV. At Aber Cuawg the cuckoos sing,\n On the blossom-covered branches:\n The loud-voiced cuckoo, let her sing a while!\nVI. At Aber Cuawg the cuckoos sing,\n On the blossom-covered branches:\n Woe to the sick that hears their contented notes.\nVII. At Aber Cuawg the cuckoos sing:\n The recollection is in my mind!\n There are that hear them that will not bear them again!\nVIII. Have I not listened to the cuckoo on the ivied tree?\n Did not my shield hang down?\n What I loved is but vexation; what I loved is no more.\nIX. High above the merry oak,\n I have listened to the song of birds.\n The loud cuckoo--every one remembers what he loves.\nX. Songstress with the solacing song! her voice is grief exciting:\n Subject to wander, with the flight of the hawk,\n The loquacious cuckoo at Aber Cuawg.\nXI. The birds are clamorous; humid are the glens:\n Let the moon shine; cold the midnight hour:\n Distracted is my mind from the torment of disorder.\nXII. White-topped is the cliff; long the midnight hour:\n Every ingenious one-will be honoured:\n I owe the indulgence of sleep to old age.\nXIII. The birds are clamorous; the beach is wet:\n Let the leaves fall; the exile is unconcerned:\n I will not conceal it, I am ill this night.\nXIV. The birds are clamorous; the strand is wet:\n Clear is the sky; large the wave:\n The heart is palsied with longing.\nXV. The birds are clamorous; the strand is wet:\n Conspicuous is the wave with its ample range:\n What was formed in my youth,\n I could love, if I could have it again.\nXVI. Clamorous are the birds on the scent;\n Loud the cry of dogs in a desert;\n Again clamorous are the birds.\nXVII. In the beginning of summer, gay are all varied seeds!\n When the warriors hasten to the conflict,\n I do not go, infirmity will not leave me.\nXVIII. In the beginning of summer, it is glorious on the course,\n When the warriors hasten to the field of battle;\n I shall not go, infirmity separates me.\nXIX. Hoary is the mountain summit; the tops of the ash are brittle:\n From the Abers the fair wave is impelled:\n Laughter is far from my heart.\nXX. What is it to me this day at the end of the month?\n In the social banquet I have left it:\n Distracted is my mind; a fever has made choice of me.\nXXI. Quick is the sight of the sentinel;\n Let the idle use courtesy:\n Distracted is my mind; disease preys upon me.\nXXII. Riches like a bowl encircling mead,\n The happy man will not wish for:\n It is a precious thing to know patience.\nXXIII. Riches like a bowl round the cheering beverage,\n The gliding stream, the refreshing shower,\n And the deep ford: the mind is stirred to treachery.\nXXIV. To foment treachery is an iniquitous deed;\n There will be pain where there will be purifying;\n It is to sell a little for much.\nXXV. Let the wicked be fomenting treachery;\n When God will judge, at the long day,\n Dark will be falsehood, truth clear.\nXXVI. There is danger in repelling the graduated visitor;\n Men are joyous over the beverage:\n Frail is the reed, of riches an emblem.\nXXVII. Hear the wave of sullen din, and loud,\n Amidst the pebbles and gravel:\n Distracted is my mind from delirium this night.\nXXVIII. Branching is the top of the oak; bitter the taste of the ash:\n Sweet the cow-parsnip; the wave is laughing:\n The cheek will not conceal the affliction of the heart.\nXXIX. The heaving sigh tells upon me,\n After my experience .\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0.\n God will not bestow on the wicked what is good.\nXXX. To the wicked what is good will not be given;\n But sorrow and anxiety:\n God will not undo what he is doing,\nXXXI. The son of sickness has been a brisk youth, he had\n An active share in the court of the king;\n May God be propitious to the diviner!\nXXXII. As to what is being done, it will come to pass,\n Let him that reads it consider:\n What is detested by man here, is detested by God above.","title":"Four Ancient Books of Wales: X. Poems Attributed to Llywarch Hen.: CXII. Red Book of Hergest X","type":"page"}