In praise of Sir Rhys ap Thomas of Abermarlais Gutor Glyn (d. c. 1493) I love the dubbed knight of Carmarthen, the hawk of the fortress of gold and wine is loved by all. I have loved Sir Rhys – and why would I not love him? he is the love of all the land of the South – I never saw a better man, nor his equal in his castle. There is no knight as gifted as this one, a beryl stone more valuable than any baron. Sir Rhys insists on his place within the island, and he measures up to an earl. The three men were soldiers, through possession of land and power, the three Sir Rhys for the nation, and this one Rhys is the greatest of all. Abermarlais will never be taken by force in his lifetime, nor his long island. The men of violence who attacked us once went there through Carmarthenshire. Now a young man has come to protect us from violence, a lord from York to the river Tawe. The saint is a roofbeam over the three counties, over lands, of Elidir’s lineage. All his factions are flowers for us, and Syr Rhys himself is a rose. A host is inadequate to maintain a court compared to one who could feed a whole island. One hundred men together would not give as much as he has given this long while. He is a man too in war, greater than a duke wherever he comes. The mighty one knows well how to scatter an army, dagger of battle, he was a fearless young man. There was a battle, like that of Peredur, the ravens of Urien prepared it. King Henry won the day through the strength of our master: killing Englishmen, capable hand, killing the boar, he shaved his head, and Sir Rhys like the stars of a shield with the spear in their midst on a great steed. Those of royal blood are ravens of the same name as him, the battle did not pass without dubbing him a knight. To name them, the followers of this man were the ones who became ravens and barons. He is a griffin carrying men, the crafty bird of every walled town, Thomas’s bird and their dignity yonder, Gruffudd’s bird with the talent of a griffon, a bird which turns into a mighty man, the lion wears wings of gold. A brave lion with the colour of a bird, wherever it comes, all Wales follows. A bird from the river Trent to Tywyn yonder, a bird which pulls Britain under its authority. Eighteen counties and cities will be under the base of its wing. May the bird which God gave us in place of his father live for three lifetimes!
Posted on: Fri, 07 Mar 2014 16:09:23 +0000