IX.

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.