Classic Poem

Llywelyn of the potent hand oft wrought
Trouble upon the kings and consternation;
When he with the Lloegrian monarch fought,
Whose cry was " Devastation! "
Forward impetuously his squadrons ran;
Great was the tumult ere the shout began;
Proud was the hero of his reeking glaive,
Proud of their numbers were his followers brave.
O then were heard resounding o'er the fields
The clash of faulchions and the crash of shields!
Many the wounds in yonder fight receiv'd!
Many the warriors of their lives bereaved!
The battle rages till our foes recoil
Behind the Dike which Offa built with toil,
Bloody their foreheads, gash'd with many a blow,
Blood streaming down their quaking knees below.
Llywelyn, we as our high chief obey,
To fair Porth Ysgewin extends his sway;
For regal virtues and for princely line
He towers above imperial Constantine.