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Updated: June 20, 2025
But the Celtic melancholy is struggling, fierce, passionate; to catch its note, listen to Llywarch Hen in old age, addressing his crutch: "O my crutch! is it not autumn, when the fern is red, the water-flag yellow? Have I not hated that which I love? O my crutch! is it not winter-time now, when men talk together after that they have drunken? Is not the side of my bed left desolate?
Historically, they still march with Cadwallader, with Llewellyn, with Glendower; sing with Aneurin, Taliesin, old Llywarch: individually, they are in the heart of the injury done them thirty years back or thrilling to the glorious deed which strikes an empty buckler for most of the sons of Time.
"Hast thou heard what Avaon sung, The son of Taliesin, of the recording verse? The cheek will not conceal the anguish of the heart." "Didst thou hear what Llywarch sung, The intrepid and brave old man? Greet kindly, though there be no acquaintance."
It is therefore conceivable that a Welsh 'litterateur, familiar as he must have been with the Llywarch, and as he quite possibly was with the Oisin, instance, should cast his version of the Arthurian stories in a similar form, and that the facts noted by you and Singer may be thus explained."
Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, Count o'er thy days from anguish free, And know, whatever thou hast been, 'Tis something better not to be. One has only to let one's memory begin to fetch passages from Byron striking the same note as that passage from Llywarch Hen, and she will not soon stop.
O my crutch! stand straight, thou wilt support me the better; it is very long since I was Llywarch. Behold old age, which makes sport of me, from the hair of my head to my teeth, to my eyes, which women loved. The four things I have all my life most hated fall upon me together, coughing and old age, sickness and sorrow.
I am old, I am alone, shapeliness and warmth are gone from me; the couch of honour shall be no more mine: I am miserable, I am bent on my crutch. How evil was the lot allotted to Llywarch, the night when he was brought forth! sorrows without end, and no deliverance from his burden.
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