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2 I, in gratitude, have sung Praise to him with brilliant tongue; He, my praises to requite, Gives me “braggat” dark and bright; I his gold will pay with fame, And will give him Rhydderch’s name. Armed with the armed, from battle fray Never known to turn away, Yet to bards a patron true, Denizen of minstrel crew; And to minstrelsy a slave, Yet the sunrise of the brave. Noblest in his pedigree, Meekest in his piety, Is the baron brave and free; To his bard from distant land, He is dear as hand to hand. To his glory I will frame, (Truth will never bring him shame,) In my native tongue a lay That shall never pass away, Till the last of mortal birth Shall have ceased to tread our earth, And the summer’s sun to ply His bold journey through the sky, Wheat to ripen, dew-drops hoar Moisture o’er the earth to pour. Long as ear can listen—long As the eye can see—the tongue