Have sprouted of late

Are changed and renewed

From their withered state.

When the beech prospers

Through spells and lianies

The oak tops entangle

There is hope for the trees.

I have plundered the fern

Through all secrets I spy

Old Math ap Mathonwy

Knew no more than I.

For with nine sorts of faculty

God has gifted me:

I am fruit of fruits

Gathered from nine sorts of trees-

Plum, Quince, Whortle,

Mulberry, Raspberry, Pear,

Black Cherry and White

With sorb in me share.

From my seat at Fefynedd

A city that is strong

I watched the trees and

Green things hasten along.

Retreating from happiness

They would fain be set

In form of the chief

Letters of the alphabet.

Wayfarers wondered

Warriors were dismayed

At renewal of conflicts

Such a Gwydion made;

Under the tongue root

A fight most dread

And another raging

Behind, in the head.

The alders in the front line

Began the affray

Willow and Rowan-tree

Were tardy in array.

The holly, dark green

Made a resolute stand

He is armed with many spear points

Wounding the hand.

With foot beat of the swift oak

Heaven and earth rung

'Stout Guardian of the Door'

His name in every tongue.

Great was the gorse in battle

And the ivy at his prime

The hazel was arbiter

At this charmed time.

Uncouthand savage was the fir

Cruel was the ash tree-

Turns not aside a foot-breath

Straight at the heart runs he.

The birch, though very noble

Armed himself but late

A sign not of cowardice

But of his high estate.

The heath gave consolation

To the toil-spent folk

The long-enduring poplars

In battle much broke.

Some of them were cast away

On the field of fight

Because of holes torn in them

By the enemies might.

Very wrathful was the vine

Whose henchmen are the elms

I exalt him mightily

To rulers of realms.

Strong chieftains were the

Blackthorn with his ill fruit

The unloved whitethorn

Who wears the same suit.

The swift pursueing reed

The broom with his brood

And the furze but ill-behaved

Until he is subdued.

The dower-scattering yew

Stood glum at the fight's fringe

With the elder slow to burn

Amid fires that singe.

And the blessed wild apple

Laughing in pride

From the Gorchan of Maeldrew

By the rock side.

In shelter linger

Privet and woodbine

Inexperienced in warfare

And the courtly pine.

But I, although slighted

Because I was not big

Fought, trees, in your array

On the field of Goddeu Brig.