by G.R. Grove
Gold-haired boy-child, Beltane born,
Wisdom’s son, mother’s Worry,
horse-fond lad, Epona’s foal,
swift you grew, swift your running.
Land-lord-fostered, well-loved child,
hard your parting from that home;
joy your coming brought to two –
Annwn’s Head and his Great Queen.
Sorrow fled Rhiannon’s face,
her false penance now was done.
Hail, Pryderi, Dyfed’s Heir –
Hail, Pryderi, hail!
Sharp-speared warrior, once you went
with great Bran to Ireland fair.
Fierce you fought there; from that fray
seven only did survive.
Feasting followed; four-score years
with sweet bird-song pleasant passed.
Bran’s head buried, home you brought
Manawydan, wise and strong,
soon to be your mother’s mate,
in green Dyfed long to live.
Hail, Pryderi, Dyfed’s Prince –
Hail, Pryderi, hail!
Slow years passed; you ruled alone,
generous, joyous, glad in hall.
Then from Gwynedd strangers came
cloaked in magic, offering
three deceptions, Gwydion’s work:
gold that glittered but soon fled.
You chose wrongly, broke your geis –
vengeance followed, blood and ruin.
Youth and magic beat you down,
yet your courage never failed.
Hail, Pryderi, Dyfed’s Loss –
Hail, Pryderi, hail!
