No hall was ever made so immoveable
As that of Cynon with the gentle breast, sovereign of the saints; {135e}
He sat no longer on his elevated throne, {136a}
Whom he pierced were not pierced again, {136b}
Keen was the point of his lance,
It perforated the enamelled armour, it penetrated through the troops;
Swift in the van were his horses, in front they tore along;
In the day of his anger {136c} blasting was his blade,
When Cynon rushed into battle with the green dawn.