Death-song of Cunedda

The Death-song of Cunedda

In her 'Wales in the Early Middle Ages', Wendy Davies writes:

"The notes in the northern section of the Historia Brittonum include references to the poets who flourished in the late sixth century and it is their names that have been attached to late medieval collections of poems of varying dates, Aneirin and Taliesin especially....

'Historia Brittonum': "At that time, Talhaiarn Cataguen was famed for poetry, and Neirin, and Taliesin and Bluchbard, and Cian, who is called Guenith Guaut, were all famous at the same time in British poetry."

.... Most of the poetry attributed to Taliesin, therefore, has nothing to do with the sixth-century poet Taliesin. This particular case highlights the general problem for a historian who wishes to take note of the poetry. It would be simpler to treat them as a strict scholar of literature might do, that is as texts without chronological context, works of art that stand alone - outside context - as works of art. In some real sense they are timeless: many can still communicate to twentieth-century man; and many are the product of repetition over several generations, being slightly refashioned with each repetition, and so belong to no one period. If they are in any sense the product of the early medieval period, however, the historian cannot afford to ignore them; they say something about attitudes and values, something about mental culture; they may occasionally note events, procedures, institutions, behaviour. The problems of dating are intensified, the above problems apart, for they survive in manuscripts of the thirteenth century and later; and being almost entirely in the vernacular, their assessment also depends on consideration of the problems of linguistic change."

'The Death Song of Cunedda' was believed by Sir Ifor Williams to be a 9th or 10th century fraud. Others, however, are not inclined to be so dismissive, though the attribution to Taliesin is probably a later invention.

I am Taliesin of ardent song, which I bestow on Christendom,
praising the wonders of the lord of Christendom.
Between the brine and the high slope and fresh stream water,
men will cringe before Cunedda, the violent one.
In Caer Weir [Durham?] and Caer Lywelydd [Carlisle]
fighting will shake the Roman towns.
A tidal inrush of flame, a wave from across the sea;
champion will set upon champion;
moved by the man who gained sway across the habitable surface of the world,
as the sighing of the wind over the ash wood.
The heirs of Kynvarch and those of Coel will hold fast together in alliance.
They will adorn the skillful bards who sing.
It is the death of Cunedda that I mourn and shall mourn.
The thick door, the stout stronghold of refuge,
the fearless one is mourned -
the noble, refined, profound one.
His address to the towns of the Romans was harsh and stark,
harder than bone against the foe.
Exalted Cunedda, before going to his earthen resting place,
he maintained his honour a hundred times over.
Before our protector perished,
the men of the land of Bryneich were wont to give battle.
A song of pain was sung for fear and dread of him before a covering of earth became his portion.
A pack like wild dogs ensheathed him.
Cowardice is worse than death. For this bitter death I lament,
for the court and the onslaught of Cunedda.
For [want of] the abundance of the brine, for the salmon of the sea,
for the spoils of the oven, I shall now surely perish.
I shall recite the verse that the bards recite.
As others reckon, I shall reckon
the wonders of the battle lord:
[his] gift of a hundred steeds before Cunedda took his share.
He used to grant me cattle in mid summer.
He used to grant me horses in winter.
He used to grant me bright wine and oil.
He used to grant me a throng of slaves for a household.
He was a mighty attacker in conflict -
the chieftain whose face was that of a lion. The borderland was always
reduced to ashes prior to the everlasting overthrow of Edern's son [i.e. Cunedda].
He who was brave, unyielding, fierce,
is cut off by the consuming power of death.
He was wont to sustain a resplendent shield.
Heroic men were his captains.
Grief wakens me, holds back the wine of the man great in feats -
the sleep of Coel's descendants destroyed.