The heroes marched to Cattraeth, filled with mead and drunk,
Compact and vigorous; {94a} I should wrong them were I to neglect their
fame;
Around the mighty, red, and murky blades,
Obstinately and fiercely the dogs of war {94b} would fight;
If I had judged you to be of the tribe of Bryneich, {94c}
Not the phantom of a man would I have left alive. {94d}
I lost a friend, myself being unhurt,
As he openly withstood the terror of the parental chief;
Magnanimously did he refuse the dowry of his father-in-law; {94e}
Such was the son of Cian {95a} from the stone of Gwyngwn.