God, consider the soul's need
of Owain son of Urien!
Rheged's prince, secret in loam:
No shallow work shall praise him.
A straight grave, a man much praised,
His whetted spear the wings of dawn:
That lord of bright Llwyfenydd,
Where is his peer?
Reaper of enemies; strong of grip;
One kind with his fathers;
Owain, to slay Fflamddwyn,
Thought it no more than sleep.
Sleepeth the wide host of England
With the light in their eyes,
And those that had not fled
Were braver than were wise.
Owain dealt them doom
As the wolves devour sheep;
That warrior, bright of harness,
Gave stallions for the bard.
Though he hoarded wealth like a miser
For his soul's sake he gave it.
God, consider the soul's need of Owain son of Urien.