The Song of the Battle of Dùngaodth

Dedicated to Jonathon, Richard Bryant & Jo Machin

Preface

I just wanted to compose something in gratitude to my 3 paid subs, and to one my dearest friends Samwise. Each of you had a character modelled and named after you in this poem, so that I’ve inserted you into the life of a figure inspired by a real life ‘King Arthur’, Artuir who in this story conquers a large chunk of territory, the equivalent to Bernicia, and repels from the north the Anglo-Saxons in their age of conquest.

If this humble work displeases you, I do apologise, it is entirely due to my clumsiness as a poet. As it is, I may down the road edit it, and improve it but your characters I hope will remain. Truly, thank you for your encouragement and support.

Richard Bryant

Jonathon, and

Jo Machin

you all have earned your place in this and a much greater epic beyond my ken. And to Samwise, thank you for always being there, I miss our book-club, and look forward to a time when it shall resume, and truly appreciate your support, you’re support means more than can be expressed.

Forward,

Letter to Brother Alvric of Auldchester, Archdruid of Jorvik, in the year 674 of our Saviour,

I am glad to hear that the King took well to my poem, and hope that this letter finds you still well, and write to you now of that which we spoke of last we met in Auldchester. You wished to know if I could find in our archives, any records and poems of the ancient King Artuir, and his beloved son Lachlan. I should report that I did indeed find one but because it was in the tongue favoured by that figure, that is to say the Caled tongue I have had it translated. The one responsible for having translated it, was none other than Brother Jonatan who did so, and if I may recommend him to thy service. I think you will find him, pious and of a good and reliable character, and very knowledge in the old customs and any scholarship concerning the Caleds and Ériu-men. I have attached his translation of the poem of the battle of Dùngaodth (fought centuries ago, in the time of great conquests of Brittia), during which Artuir nigh on doubled his realm in one fell-swoop and threw back the invading hordes from distant Valholant. The poem was composed by the bard who belonged to the victorious Artuir, and wrote it down only in the tongue of the Conqueror.

Still yours, Brother Ealric of the monastery near Mt-Artorvion,

The Song of the Battle of Dùngaodth

I

High didst the falcon soar,

Wings angled as one might an oar,

Away, away he flies,

Whither thereon the fields where dies

And stands unnumbered men,

Fierce beyond Mimir’s ken,

Lo! Lightning-swift swing the spears!

Unmeasured a thousand lives shears

The arms of the north-horde,

Fierce as flames are their swords,

Dancing, flashing through mail and flesh,

Hatchets in hand, they spread naught but distress,

Thousands unnumbered didst thunder,

Ne’er could they tear asunder,

Raging against the shield-wall,

This just before their great fall,

Ravenous was the southron advance,

Thousands were their lances,

Which they threw once halt’d

By the wall which was utterly unalter’d,

Shield against shield,

Blade upon blade,

Muddy was the field,

And darkened skies that ne’er fade,

None didst yield,

Blood for blood was paid,

Forward o’er the fields,

Went the south-men who prey’d

Upon the north, just as the displeased

Warriors of the distant west-fields,

The south the north wish’d to exceed,

Brittia’s flower didst yield,

But ne’er will Ríocht-men lower their blades,

In words as in deeds,

The Valhol-men all didst degrade,

Conquest they conceived,

So that always north they didst raid,

Doing so as they pleased,

Since arrival as in the fields,

Tyr and Woden to whom they appeal’d,

Northron in blood, and to the north they pray’d,

And many squeal’d,

At Ríocht blades,

Raiment of mail,

All of them hale,

Tall as reeds,

Many were their deeds,

O’er Glacial Seas,

Frozen as all wintry-breezes,

Blond were their braids,

Bearded were those of the cascades

Who swept swords in hands,

Across all the Brittian lands,

Mighty and cruel, eyes ablaze,

Their southron foes swept up in a daze,

Soft, fat and fearful,

Were the dutiful

Sons of Brigantia,

They who knelt,

There were Roma’s soldiers once dwelt,

This they didst for years,

Amidst a flow of tears,

Frighten’d of harm,

As they were direct’d to barns,

Just as one might cattle

Too timid to engage in battle,

Lo! Were men made tame

Ere they were made lame,

Wild they were once,

Gone now is their wild impulses,

Herded north, against their brothers,

In war that waged for many summers,

Suns rose, the moon climb’d the skies,

Ere rebellion burst, and after many sighs,

O’er the lamb they journey’d,

That their masters’ might proceed

In exalted conquest,

And increase Roma’s distress,

Roma of many rivalries,

Yet her sons’ few felt few anxieties,

Few in numbers, denied their properties,

Their humiliations many-fold,

They who ruled all in days of olde,

Helm’d heads uprais’d,

They who were ne’er enslaved,

Hearts on fire, and souls full of ire,

On their feet they didst expire,

Square-shields in hand,

Galdiuses swept o’er the land,

Driven north, denied the south,

Agape was every mouth,

Fifty full score men,

Mighty as fifty thousand men,

Dark and terrible,

Blades crimson and durable,

II

Britannia’s pyre piled high,

As Valhol invaders she didst hire,

That her foes might die,

Yet her own pyre she set afire,

Behold the folly of Vyrtigyrn,

To be Valholant he didst aspire,

Lo! The rapacity of Vyrtigyrn,

Who didst cause many to expire,

Whom he ought to have served,

‘Bah this they deserved,

They who were born to be slaves,’

Thus, didst his kindred he didst revile,

As he executed all their braves,

And fed the rest their bile,

Such be the evils of Vyrtigyrn,

This ere Ardentius arose

To bandy flame and steel against Vyrtigyrn,

Roma-born was Ardentius,

Pious and true,

Begat amidst marble and towers,

All her enemies didst rue

His displeasure, whithersoever he went,

Draped in silk and leather,

Roma’s enemies he bent,

Wintry and sun-swept weather

He endured, ere to Bretwealda’s shores,

Ardentius arrived, nary of age,

hands on the oars

Hair dark as the sea’s waves,

Given o’er to the Lairdly-Isle,

In adoption by Roma,

That he might defend the kingliest Isle,

Kingly in mien,

And ferocious as a lion,

He who hew’d from head to spleen,

Vyrtigyrn’s near scion,

Vyrtan of black memory,

Many are the tales

Still sung of Ardentius’

Valour that all in comparison do pale,

His final hours though tortuous,

Remained defiant,

His own sister-son,

By his side against the tyrant,

Sword in hand, heart cast in iron,

No less Romalian,

And no less dark of hair,

Hardly Brittian,

Away the banner with the heir

went the warrior’s heir,

Taliésin the Proud,

He who cast o’er his uncle a shroud,

Interred him, and gave o’er his rings,

To they who followed him in virtue and sins,

He Vyrtigyrn didst hunt,

Yet ne’er didst he confront

The hardy man’s heir,

He who didst against him dare,

Neither in the glens,

Nor among his friends

Was Taliésin to be found,

Among the Mounts

He search’d, all to no avail,

Neither the vales, nor the dales

Didst yield a trace,

The north Taliésin didst embrace,

Hew the high-shield,

Spears shattered,

Tear the men in the field,

Swords splintered,

Hatchets torn,

Hooves hammered

Apart men, and had them shorn

of their lives, all scattered,

Before the might of Roma,

Swords glimmered,

By the last sons’ of Roma

To bear blades that still glittered,

Now no longer hers, but of Brittia,

Vyrtigyrn’s hatred,

Taliésin endured,

Brittian lives fritter’d,

Away as coin lured,

From fools of unabated

Folly, who believe all hearsay,

III

Lo! Lion-standards raised high,

Clothe a-flutter,

Bronze-statue dost defy

With more than a mutter,

Southron steel and supremacy,

Vengrist and Ælle they would deny,

They who warred with inclemency

Against spear-lovers, aye

They who held tight and high

Their blades, and were treated most irreverently,

They who looked to sky

And temple most reverently,

Whether in snowy,

Rocky Mountains left in legacy

From men cast in stone, ice, or of sly

Character, all men left vastness as legacy,

Yet fritter’d to naught by those of high pedigree,

Therewith Taliésin Swift-Sword,

Stands tall the lion-bearer,

The most fear’d

Centurion, he who rose in furor,

He of the thick beard,

Mane wild and forever

Frost-eyed, teeth bared,

Black-horse and rider,

Rode hither arms still gird,

Lion a-glitter,

Thither he raced,

Ne’er in leisure

Always in war he galloped

There, here and whithersoever,

Arms for war, all readied

Where men falter,

Valhol men were left dead,

Such was ever

The work of Jonatan the Lion, 

Sister-son to the hard man,

Jonatan of right descent,

Vyrtigyrn didst ban,

The man who rent

And tore apart to a man

Those who had bent

Before the sea-brothers,

Striking with might,

Farther than any others,

Ere falls the night,

Neither in winter or summers

Didst so many fight

Thus, Gewisse still shudders,

Roma forever her blight,

Few in numbers,

Ne’er alone to delight

In victory, but with her lovers’,

Centuries of every slight,

That war smothers,

United by Taliésin’s light,

That brought together as brothers,

Roma and Ríocht-Riada’s might,

IV

Ríocht-blades flash’d,

Hearts aflame,

Joy danced,

As they made all men lame,

All ranks crash’d,

This they didst without shame,

Battle-drunk they slash’d,

Ríocht-men all mighty in frame,

Long-limb’d,

Endless war-songs they exclaim,

Valhol-men they stab’d,

War-deeds later all may proclaim,

Long after they had clash’d,

Such all men should earn their fame,

Rather than by their caste,

Only one of that rank any should acclaim,

Amid low-man and not he slash’d,

Heart aflame,

Ríocht-blades flash’d,

He the south didst blame,

Blade here and there danced,

Lo! The bear banner flutters,

Wind against her, it batters,

Shadow’d face,

White clothe full of grace,

Thereby centre-field,

Fights’ the finest of nobility’s breed,

King by steel,

Unsurpass’d in zeal,

Graced by popular appeal,

Who from battle ne’er didst wheel,

Tall as an oak,

Unfurl’d his cloak,

Ere he struck as lightning,

His excitement ne’er ceasing,

Stabbing further than any bolt,

So well fought Artuir the Bold,

Flaxen-hair’d, green eyed,

Ríocht-Riada’s pride,

From ship to shore,

From islet to isle,

The King didst bore

Through ranks most vile,

A full score,

That none full of denial,

May his battle-feats ignore,

Hew the spear-wall,

Tear apart man and thrall,

That they rest amid bile,

And blood for more

than a mere mile,

Neither in days of yore,

Nor in future days most mild,

Will another appear once more,

Half so glorious as Artuir the Wild,

Twelve swords about the King,

Six heroes of Pechland,

All of them, didst sing,

And out of the Occident land

Came they, one wing

To Ziu’s hand,

Who they together didst cling,

Rikard was fiercest of the band,

Next in the string,

Gwain was, tall and grand,

Third was Adamh of the Gold-Ring,

Wise was old Brien the Tanned,

Fifth came Beathan long-sword thrashing,

Ciaran didst the slaughter expand,

Three Elf-braves arrived in spring,

Keen to serve at sea, as on land,

Summer-eyed, Valhols they were spearing,

Ywahvyl the Lancer was eldest,

Keen-ear’d and strong-armed,

His line in ancient times highest

Countless men he deform’d

By virtue of spear and blade,

Kahlnu was no less fierce,

Many centuries ago he achieved fame,

In muddy fields thousands, he didst pierce,

Blood ‘twas his trade,

Brolhain the youngest,

Countless didst the Elf-Wolf slay,

Of all the Mountain-Elves, he was mightiest,

He who struck at night as in day,

Foes left in dust,

Defiant and ravenous,

And for blood was he full of avarice,

Thus, was the way of Brolhain,

Mightiest of Elfmount’s sons,

From Highland peaks,

High above Lowland plains,

Beyond West-Isle fleets,

From battle he ne’er abstains,

He of few defeats,

Though it rains,

Reduced to a great many shrieks,

And myriad pains,

Ramial of the Highland Keeps,

He who reigns

O’er those without and with beaks,

Reigning through two dozen reigns,

Ramiel the Unconquer’d son,

Few who saw him, remain skeptic

Of the glory attributed to the fearer of the dawn,

Ramiel the most majestic

of all those under the suns’,

Down o’er the plains in scarlet characteristic

Fury, wings spread wide that none may outrun,

How deep his fortress runs,

Quite how many words of poetic

Flavour might best describe the peaks none

May know, and none who are authentic

Will ever admit, whether poetry they have spun

Or not, many have dubbed him altruistic,

Ramiel mightiest of the Highland’s sons,

To Artuir’s call, the heir of the majestic

Peaks didst answer as none

Imagined refusal of his horn’s mystique,

The next there was in full majesty,

The two who full of disdain

For all who might press the travesty

Of the Valhol-men’s many gains,

Were of one mother, Ylla of great vanity,

Queen-Dowager who didst remain,

Amidst great melancholy,

By her King’s side to maintain,

His crown, while her sons’ left in majesty,

This they didst without hope to gain,

To war went they happily,

Second of her sons’ Thrain,

His deeds adorn many a-tapestry,

Mighty in war was old Thrain,

Long flame-beard in its totality

Didst inspire awe in all, again

Sing the refrain

Of the greatest of Dwarves, Thrain!

Rivaled solely by Dain

Of famous memory, who in brutality

Was unsurpassed, O Dain!

Dain of renown’d sagacity,

None may equal, or could profane,

Such was his barbarity

In war, and domain

And wisdom that all loved his majesty,

Many were the strikes he dealt again,

Third of Ylla’s sons, least in vanity,

All Artuir’s braves,

All of them happily sang,

Each would follow to their graves,

None of them didst ban,

Fear and in days

Of yore to a man,

And all didst slay

To a man,

All who might in day

Or night oppose their liege,

Every foe they slay,

Happily for their chief,

The bear-man they all obey,

Artuir of many deeds,

Who show’d them the way,

His banner they march’d beneath,

It which held much sway,

In battle as in peace, and ne’er defeat,

And ne’er didst betray

They who leap

Thither to in its name slay,

And pile in a heap,

Glory bright as the day,

V

Bright as sunlight,

Dark as the twilight,

‘Twas Ælle’s nature,

That push’d him to venture,

Whither across the sea,

Where he might be free,

Thereon the free isle many a decree

To extract countless pleas,

Foul was Ælle’s leanings,

That left countless men bleeding,

Throughout the Midlands,

As thousands of Gewisse’s bands,

To the north they fled,

Even as they bled,

Ne’er to return south,

Tongues still in their mouth,

Woe to any of Ælle’s enemies,

For he saw few similarities,

Betwixt Brittia’s heirs,

And those Valhol declared theirs,

To the slaughter he led their mares,

As he had countless of those who dares

To defy, in wintry morns’

As in dusky nights’, blowing their war-horns,

Loud as the cry of the cock,

From vale to dock,

Across winter nights,

To summer days until twilight,

For what man, that calls himself

A man, remains deaf,

To a maiden’s cry,

As she is left to die?

Thick bucklers,

Silvering colours,

Glimmer’d bright

As flames in the light,

For the right ne’er die,

To fallen halls they fly,

So long as one sword remains,

Life continues in her domains,

Britannia’s veins,

Thrum still with grains,

With men, with mounts,

Who with blades and hounds,

May well fight on,

By the sea and thereon

The high-hills of olde,

That her men dost mould,

Thrice charged the bold men,

Against the tyrant’s ken,

Horns ablaze,

That left monsters a-dazed,

Bucklers upraised as forts,

Horses snouts high, let loose snorts

And charges untold,

That they might imitate those of olde,

The flaxen man vengeance

And just-rule dost seek,

Up the hill in ascendance,

He dost cross, neither weak

Nor soft, this be his entrance,

To Ríocht-service, he the least meek

Of Neustria’s many sons’ full of menace,

Joël a-horse on Gontran the Sleek,

He who was precious

The fiercest of steeds,

This most ferocious,

Of Faramondian steeds,

Disgraced by Kingly decree,

Little could he foresee,

Joël’s glimmering legend,

He who was second,

Only to Samnaill in Gewisse,

Lo! The Valhols trembled in Gewisse

As in Estria and Norlam,

To hear of Neustria’s ram,

Spear thrust from the west,

Ne’er could he rest,

So long as any enemy lives,

As he drives their women to tears,

 Across many years,

His Elf-Steed appears,

Countless were his victories,

So sayeth all future histories,

Lo! Behold Joël Silver-Lance,

Lance in hand that at a glance

None could compare,

A thousand didst dare,

He and sorcerous Alkhan

Fiercely clash’d at noon-tide,

Tenebrous Alkhan,

Who of old, stole his bride,

Beauteous Marion,

To hide her in a fort of iron,

That none save Joël didst dare,

To raid, with none there,

For aid, save Artuir King,

Whom didst give him many a ring,

That he might rule in fort

In prestige and hold court,

As should all men of such valour,

Who at a charge didst scatter,

All who might keep Marion

Clasped in bronze and iron,

Brittia by Brittians was lost,

By Romalians defended,

Valhol-men fought,

Ere Ríocht-men the battle ended,

Amid mud made soft,

And past corpse after corpse suspended,

From mortal coil toss’d

Aside as lightly as stones,

That they might litter their bones,

Across plains wide as the sea,

With men quick as a bee,

To defend hearth,

And homes built atop the earth,

Pass’d by grandfathers,

Who received ere their fathers’

Were begat and upright,

On feet and with arms raised to fight,

Artuir three paces ahead,

That he might behead

He that ruled Vyrtigyrn faint-heart,

As the tyrant had others by blade and dart,

Thrice didst King and laird clash,

And thrice didst all others dash

From before them,

Ere either man didst condemn

Them to abysmal realms

Or to heavenly farewells

From this earthly coil

As the two didst their deadly toil,

VI

Honour lost, to courtly gladness,

Battles hardly fought,

Men didst submit to weakness,

Her sister doubt

Spread throughout all her vileness,

Such was Brittia’s thought

Ere all others in battle delightedness

Resolved what peace wrought

With such weakly foolishness,

As much by nuptials’ ill-bought

As by ill-done servileness,

Thus, who other than the well-fought

Joël and Taliésin’s matchless

Charm and wisely begot

Rebellious madness

Didst frenzy as it aught,

From forest and village slackness,

Mountain hiding the overwrought

Peasants into violent heroicness

Across the realm’s vastness

From mountain glade to battle field walked,

Who assailed their apprehension,

With fine words and charm,

Well-reason’d were his contentions,

He of wise-heart, and famed arm

That bought Brittia’s redemption,

To Valhol he brought much harm,

Of Caled stock wert the lady,

That begat him, therein southron farm,

By Sevron waves, amid days most heavy,

Lairdly was he from whom he spun,

Other men’s dread he gaily

Took up, and their enemies he hung,

Such was Samnaill’s ways daily,

He the brigand, of noble heart who flung

From mountain rocks and castle steps,

They whom by treachery Brittia was undone,

Thus, wert their deaths

assured and they wrung

from mortality excised,

O’er Midland fastness,

Under mountain shadows

All throughout the vastness,

From dale to meadows,

All sang of his steadfastness,

That in all good men echoes

Still, By madness done,

Thus was wrong undone,

‘There yonder,

Flies the sun-rose,

That flutters longer

Than flows

Any Valhol banner,’

Sayeth Alkhan who didst oppose,

The Ríocht wing,

In the western lows,

Spread death to her last King,

By sorcery, sword and arrows,

Black-heart and dark ring,

That brought to many much sorrow,

By fate, as by his blade flashing

And glimmering in the shadow

Of the distant hills near the crashing

Waves was his cry heard, echoing hollow

That no man was set to sorrowing,

Such was the nature of his evil’s shadow,

Rather praise be to Samnaill of the glittering

Hauberk and sword, who set aside, sorrow

And fear, to reduce the pilfering

Laird of shadows,

To naught along with his ring,

That others may not endure hollow

And empty months in brooding

Imprisonment, with only a shadow

For company ere his escaping,

To rural homes hallow

Save to darkened eyes, ere the slaying

Of the dark man Alkhan who none didst sorrow

At the passing,

None save one, let not this foreshadow

Misery, but rejoicing!

Dead! Dead is Alkhan the Shadow,

Alkhan of the Black ring,

VII

Of Alkhan black-heart,

All have heard,

He of the northern march,

He who had many scar’d,

Of his kinsmen who didst impart

To all near his fort,

Death to the arms of his horde,

This forever be his sport,

As it was that of his kin, to tear apart

All that lesser men held dear and to hoard,

Valuables and all they may impart

To sons and daughters, near the fjord

They didst reside, both dark of beard,

at the Midlands’ heart,

No lesser in evil, was his laird,

Cousins in blood as in heart,

Wert they, ere one fell on the sward,

From crown to beard,

By Samnaill’s glittering sword,

Calihearn, that glitter’d blue, when bared,

Away, was Cynebald, on the east-sward,

Else he might have dared

To for his kinsman’s sake ward

The inevitable end,

Two full score thousands

Fought in the low and high sands,

Three score leagues it stretch’d

There along those leagues all quarrel’d,

Some for life, others for glory,

Many wert they to bury,

Ere the day’s end,

In battle he didst condescend,

He of steel raiment,

Whom none didst dissent,

For fear of displeasure,

None save Roma may cure

By savage might,

As none would take flight,

Try though he didst to resist,

Taliésin who ne’er could desist

From war, or peace,

His soul fathomless as the ocean,

Just as that of his uncle

Was proven to be, so that with a rumble

And many shouts, and charges,

Thus, sing the harpers,

Taliésin met his end amid blood,

Falling down in a muddy flood,

Lo! Roma’s last joy was dash’d,

This before thousands more clash’d,

Of Taliésin, many still weep,

As he at last didst reap,

The fate due to all who leap,

From common fields to battle deep,

This he didst, neither gently nor meek

In spirit, that no others may reek

Of the shame Vyrtigyrn on his house didst heap,

His spear was long and cut deep,

Armour glisten’d and didst creak,

Ere his armour broke and didst leak

Blood amid green fields, which were sleek

And all red, many to feed many a-beak

Of scores of thousands of crows’ bleak

As the heavens up above, none dared speak,

Jonatan now didst leap,

Desirous to repay wicked greed,

With icy cold steel,

Keen that Cynebald’s blood seep,

As he had made Taliésin bleed,

Leonine roar resounded to every keep,

To every corner, every village didst reap

Death that visited every man’s keep,

Be it small or big as a heap,

If Jonatan could not send him to Orcus’s keep,

What man might forward leap?

Roma’s pride lay amid many a-heap,

Yet ne’er didst they relent, or halt to weep,

Such was the way, the land-fleet

Of men about Cynebald didst reap

The dark seed

That he had planted deep

Within Jonatan’s soul,

VIII

As in iron, wert they cast,

How long they sword’d

None may say, but last

To fall in those fields haunted,

As countless men had in the past,

Vyrtigyrn might have flaunted,

Corpse and head, along the vast

Walls of Auldchester, haunted

By countless numbers the mass

Of warriors that at one time hunt’d,

Amid the grass,

In his fort most vaunt’d,

Of all that was

Once his father’s vast

Domain, little was left to pass,

As he fought to an impasse

Three warriors’ of less

Noble rank, though they ne’er wax

As he didst in nobility even to the last,

Thus, didst they lay down

He of the castle that around

Was beset with a great wound,

Ere, Cynebald fell down

He let flow a cry that didst astound,

Ne’er didst he expect to fall a-ground

In the fields of Dùngaodth, where ghosts abound,

The wind whistles there still loud,

The whispers of men who vowed,

The Warlord’s end be made to resound

From Dùngaodth, to proud

Auldchester in the south, where the cloud

Of descent and death aroused,

Such melancholy in Brittia’s gouged

And people who suffer’d many a wound,

Hardly to rejoice what they sow’d,

This loss of such profound

Shock to she still dear, to their avowed

Foe who ne’er was to rebound,

She whom he sired, ne’er didst surround

Herself with joy, but in misery drown’d

Until such time Lachlan MacArtuir didst bound

Thither into yon keep and found

Her in misery where she be bow’d

By pain and chains,

IX

Thereby peasant deliverance,

And Romalian vengeance,

Along with Ríocht-arms in attendance,

Thereby they pronounced the sentence,

When Alkhan refused repentance,

Cynebald despised Ríocht forbearance,

Ælle sought still to tremendous

Horror of unnumber’d souls vengeance,

For wrongs imagined, real whereby deference

To his whims and menace,

Might be served and eternal severance

Served to heroic Artuir, for his deference

To all that men consider righteousness,

Hand hot to the blade,

That in ancient times was made,

Arm’d with faith,

Badb for this raid,

Shouted alongside Maeve,

That he might bade

Farewell to Ælle by flame,

As by steel, just as the rear-guard betray’d,

He who they had always been afraid,

Thus, the scarlet Ælle was bade,

To end his raid,

Wind howling, as Artuir’s blade,

Will’d it, as his foe refused escape,

Of his friends Ælle didst saith,

That they had left him in disgrace,

A thousand curses’ he array’d,

Ere he met his end on Artuir’s blade,

There he still remains a wraith,

Howling and moaning thereafter to another age,

Lo! And behold the wonder of the world,

Who tore from Brittia and Pechs a third

Of the isle of Bretwealda, his banner unhurl’d

In the fields of Dùngaodth and submerged,

Ælle and all he hurled,

Vengrist’s wrath was burled,

And rightfully incurr’d,

Yet Artuir’s realm was ne’er imperiled,

He who Romalian, Brittian and Ríocht merged,

Into one crystalline world,

By which Joël affirm’d

A north-laird whereby they deferr’d

As he and Jonatan conserved,

All that Roma that Vengrist might have purged,

Of Rickard greatest of the braves, west he was spurr’d,

And there Vengrist’s wrath he spurn’d,

That he and Samnaill might not be scourged,

Samnaill of peasant and warrior stock, emerged

From Dùngaodth to well-deserved,

Rank his forefathers ne’er yearn’d,

Towards and that he preserved

As surely as he didst the realm earned

By steel, iron and blood spill’d,

Thereon Dùngaodth, and extended

Thrice more thereafter which all men learned

And wise have well-heard,

Lo! Artuir’s third raid,

By which and mystique blade,

He had Vengrist bade

Farewell to brother ere a new raid

Was to the south made,

Ere Yule’s wintry glory hither came,

By which Artuir’s realm became

Unmatch’d and didst bathe

In blood as in glory, it display’d

Across vast lands where braves

Danced alongside countless dames,

Who their wondrous fame

Didst most heartily embrace,

This I hath convey’d,

Herein this keep which hast faced snow’d

Squalls and once more the spring embraces,

Brought forth by regal Artuir’s fame

That neither man nor gods’ would disgrace,

Such be the glory at Dùngaodth he didst achieve,

And many times thereafter, by faith

As by his mystique blade!