Cad Goddeu or the Battle of Achren 
The tops of the beech tree 
Have sprouted of late, 
Are changed and renewed 
From their withered state. 
  
When the beech prospers 
Through spells and litanies 
The oak tops entangle, 
There is hope for the trees.   
  
I have plundered the fern 
Through all secrets I spy, 
Old Math ap Mathonwy 
Knew no more than I. 
  
For with nine sorts of faculty 
God has gifted me: 
I am the fruit of fruits gathered 
From nine sorts of tree. 
  
Plum, quince, whortle, mulberry, 
Raspberry, pear, 
Black cherry and white 
With the sorb in me share. 
  
From my seat at Fefynedd, 
A city that strong, 
I watched the trees and green things 
Hastening alone. 
  
Retreating from happiness 
They would fain be set 
In the form of the chief letters 
Of the alphabet. 
  
Wayfarers wondered, 
Warriors were dismayed 
At renewal of conflicts 
Such as Gwydion made; 
  
Under the tongue root 
A fight most dread, 
And another raging 
Behind in the head. 
  
The alders in the front line 
Began the affray. 
Willow and rowan tree 
Were tardy in array. 
  
The holly, dark green, 
Made a resolute stand; 
He is armed with many spear points 
Wounding the hand. 
  
With foot beat of the swift oak 
Heaven and earth rung; 
'Stout Guardian of the Door' 
His name on every tongue. 
  
Great was the gorse in battle, 
And the ivy at his prime; 
The hazel was arbiter 
At this charmed time. 
  
Uncouth and savage was the fir, 
Cruel the ash tree 
Turns not aside a foot-breath, 
Straight at the heart runs he. 
  
The birch, though very noble, 
Armed himself but late: 
A sign not of cowardice 
But of high estate. 
  
The heath gave consolation 
To the toil-spent folk, 
The long-enduring poplars 
In battle much broke. 
  
Some of them were cast away 
On the fields of fight 
Because of holes torn in them 
By the enemy's might 
  
Very wrathful was the vine 
Whose henchmen was the elms; 
I exalt him mightily 
To ruler of the realms. 
  
Strong chieftains were the blackthorn 
With his ill fruit, 
The unbeloved whitethorn 
Who wears the same suit. 
  
The swift pursuing reed, 
The broom with his brood, 
The furze but ill behaved 
Until he is subdued. 
  
The dower-scattering yew 
Stood glum at the fight's fringe, 
With the elder slow to burn 
Amid fires that singe. 
  
And the blessed wild apple 
Laughing in pride 
From the Gorchan of Maeldrew 
By the rock side. 
  
In shelter linger 
Privet and woodbine, 
Inexperienced in warfare, 
And the courtly pine. 
  
But I, although slighted 
Because I was not big, 
Fought trees, in your array 
On the fields of Goddeu Brig.