i adore the sovereign lord of the royal land -

may his dominion extend over the reaches of the cosmos!

perfect was witaos’ prison in the faery fort.

due to the ministry of morgana and emrys

none before him had entered therein.

in the heavy blue chain a faithful servant kept him

and for the spoils of annwn keenly he chanted

and unto doom shall continue in bard-orison.

three fulnesses of prydwen we entered in:

save for seven none came up from fort faery.

composed for renown am i, a verse heard

four times over in the four-quartered fort

in the song of the cauldron when first it gave voice,

warmed by the breath of nine maidens.

the chief of annwn's forge, who finished

the rim around its edge with pearl,

swore never should it cook a coward's food?

a bright flashing sword was raised to it

and it was left in the hand of sigurd

and lanterns shone before helheim’s door

and when we went in with artur trouble glittered:

save for seven none came up from fort mead-mad.

composed for renown am i, a verse heard

on the stone-doored isle in the four-quartered fort.

tranquillity and obscurity mingled

shiny wine their drink before their retinue.

three fulnesses of prydwen we went upon the main,

save for seven none came up from castle rigor.

i am not meet for petty men, the book a boss:

they saw not artur's virtue beyond the fort of glasses.

three score centuries of men stationed on the wall:

to speak with its sentinel was not easy.

three fulnesses of prydwen we went with arthur,

save for seven none came up from fort hindrance.

i am not meet for petty men, slack their habit:

they know not, they, on what day who was made,

what hour of the fine day was born to whom,

who made him who went not to the dale of hwicce.

they know not, they, the great speckled ox in headgear

with seven-score links in its collar-chain.

and when we went with artur, a sorry visit,

save for seven none came up from fort divine height.

i am not meet for petty men, slack their spirit:

they know not, they, what day the chief was made,

what hour of the fine day was born the owner,

what a beast they keep with its silver head.

when we went with artur, a sorry strife,

save for seven none came up from fort hoar-side.

druids throng like a kennel of pups

from disputing with the masters who instruct them

whether the run of the wind is one, or one the ocean's waters

or one the spark of fire - an illimitable clamour.

druids mass like a pack of wolves

from disputing with the masters who instruct them -

they know not when deep dark and dawn divorce

nor who sends the wind, nor who moves it,

where it disappears to, what land it strikes.

a hallowed grave in dying, with the grave an altar:

i adore the sovereign lord, the great,

that i be not sad, nine grant me