Aneirin
Aneirin was a late 6th or early 7th century Brythonic poet from the Hen Ogledd, the Cumbric-speaking regions of northern Britain.
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He glutted black ravens on the rampart of the stronghold, though he was no Arthur.
Three hundred men hastened forth, wearing gold torques, defending the land – and there was slaughter. Though they were slain they slew, and they shall be honoured to the end of the world; and of all us kinsmen who went, alas, but for one man none escaped.
From the retinue of Mynyddog they hastened forth; in a shining array they fed together round the wine-vessel. My heart has become full of grief for the feast of Mynyddog, I have lost too many of my true kinsmen.
The men went to Catraeth, swift was their host, the pale mead was their feast and it was their poison.
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