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4 I with him my home will make, Ne’er to towns my course will take, Ne’er Glamorgan will forsake. Warrior who, ’mid social throngs, Loves the minstrel’s notes and songs. Wealthy “Hawk,” all honored man, Firm upon his battle steed; Furious fighter in the van, Clear of voice, sage “Hawk,” in rede. Deathless Stag! whose faithful band Deivria never may withstand: Honors great for me are stored, (If I live) from Ivor’s hand; Hound and huntsman at command, Daily banquet at his board, (Princely baron!) at the game With his piercing shafts to aim; And to let his falcons fly On the breezes of the sky, Ev’ry melody that rings From the harp’s sweet treble strings— Every “solo” that is sung, His Maesaleg’s halls among— Dice and draughts, and ev’ry sport Of Maesaleg’s joyous court— Will the host who governs there, Freely with the poet share. There is none, through all the land, Like the prince of generous hand.