?Under the tongue root a fight most dread, and another raging, behind, in the head.?
?ins Sankrit übersetzt.
Aus dem keltischen Gedicht:
Cad Goddeu
the Battle of the Trees
The tops of the beech tree
Have sprouted of late,
Are changed and renewed
From there withered state.
When the beech prospers,
Through spells and litanies
The oak tops entangle,
There is help in the trees.
I have plundered the fern,
Through all secrets I spy,
Old Math ap Mathonwy
Knew no more than I.
For with nine sorts of faculty
God has gifted me:
I am fruit of fruits gathered
from nine sorts of trees--
Plum, Quince, whortle, mulberry,
Raspberry, pear,
Black cherry and white
With sorb in me share
From my seat at Fefynedd,
A city that is strong,
I watched the trees and green
things hastening along.
Retreating from happiness
They would fain be set
In form of the chief letters
of the alphabet.
Wayfarers wondered
Warriors were dismayed
At renewal of conflicts
Such a Gwydion made;
Under the tongue root
A fight most dread,
And another raging,
Behind, in the head.
The alders in the front line
Began the affray.
Willow and rowan-tree
Were tardy in array.
The holly, dark green,
Made a resolute stand;
He is armed with many spear points
Wounding the hand.
With foot-beat of the swift oak
Heaven and earth rung;
?Stout the Guardian of the Door?,
His name in every tongue.
Great was the gorse in battle,
and the ivy at his prime;
The hazel was arbiter
At this charmed time.
Uncouth and savage was the fir,
Cruel was the ash tree--
Turns not aside a foot-breadth,
Straight at the heart runs he.
The birch, though very noble,
Armed himself but late:
A sign not of his cowardice
But of his high estate.
The heath gave consolation
To the toil spent folk,
The long-enduring poplars
In battle much broke.
Some of them were cast away
On the field of fight
Because of holes torn in them
By the enemies? might.
Very wrathful was the vine
Whose henchmen are the elms;
I exalt him mightily
To rulers of the realms.
Strong chieftains were the
Blackthorn with his ill fruit,
The unbeloved whitethorn
Who wears the same suit.
The swift persuing reed,
The broom with his brood,
And the furze, but ill-behaved
Until he is subdued.
The dower-scattering yew
Stood glum at the fight?s fringe,
With the elder slow to burn
And fires that singe,
And the blessed wild apple
Laughing in pride
From the Gorchan of Maeldrew,
By the rock side.
In the shelter linger
Privet and woodbine,
inexperienced in warfare,
And the courtly pine.
But I, although slighted
Because I was not big,
Fought, trees, in your array
On the field of Goddeu Brig.
