He glutted black ravens on the rampart of the stronghold, though he was no Arthur.
From the retinue of Mynyddog they hastened forth; in a shining array they fed together round the wine-vessel. My heart has become full of grief for the feast of Mynyddog, I have lost too many of my true kinsmen.
Three hundred men hastened forth, wearing gold torques, defending the land – and there was slaughter. Though they were slain they slew, and they shall be honoured to the end of the world; and of all us kinsmen who went, alas, but for one man none escaped.
The men went to Catraeth, swift was their host, the pale mead was their feast and it was their poison.
