I have seen a court, and a dozen courts,
And no court have I seen as gracious
As the court I love for its chieftain's sake,
Not weak is my praise, like Celligwen:
Heaven's bounty on earth in Bachelldref,
Where there is a revel each Christmas,
A crowd of kinsmen, a lake of liquor,
Bright the honour of Meurig's homeland,
Many a minstel and merry fiddler,
And much the mirth on a polished floor,
And a sound of strigs, a deluge of drinks,
And the constant cadence of singing,
And a red-hued lance of Cadwaladr's line,
A blood-gushing blade, promise of meat,
And minstrels' swaying, and children chirping,
And the bustle of boys bringing food,
The cup-bearer weary, kitchen sore-tried,
And three kinds of wine for the thirsty.
Three customs there are, a merry country,
At Daffyd's hight court, blameless boldness:
Whoever you are, whatever you sing,
And whatever the thing you're known for,
Come whenever you wish, take what you see,
And once come, stay as long as you like.
SEASONS GREETINGS EVERYBODY, PEACE AND GOODWILL TOO
UNLESS YOUR A FASCIST ******* THEN **** YOU
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