Taliesin Quotes

Welsh bard

Taliesin (or Taliessin; c. 534 – c. 599) is the earliest poet in any Brittonic language whose work has survived. Although he probably composed in Cumbric, since the songs most surely attributed to him are praise poems to Urien Rheged, a warrior monarch of the Old North, these poems survive in Middle Welsh in the so-called Book of Taliesin, written down around the 13th century, along with about forty more of more dubious attribution. His name means "Radiant Brow" (tal iesin in Welsh). The book was translated by Robert Williams and published in The Four Ancient Books of Wales (1858) by W. F. Skene. These translations are notoriously unreliable, but few better have since appeared, due to the obscurity and compression of the verse.

From: Wikiquote (CC BY-SA 4.0)

Pleasant, berries in the time of harvest; Also pleasant, wheat upon the stalk. Pleasant the sun moving in the firmament; Also pleasant the retaliators of outcries.

A pleasant virtue, extreme penance to an extreme course; Also pleasant, when God is delivering me. Pleasant, the carousal that hinders not mental exertion; Also pleasant, to drink together about horns.

He would not journey without a foot. He would not breed nuts without trees, Like seeking for ants in the heath. Like an instrument of foolish spoil, Like the retinue of an army without a head, Like feeding the unsheltered on lichen.

It is a fit time to go to the drinking, With the skilful men, about art, And a hundred knots, the custom of the country, The shepherd of the districts, support of gates, Like going without a foot to battle.

The rock wave-surrounded, by great arrangement, Will convey for us a defence, a protection from the enemy. The rock of the chief proprietor, the head of tranquillity. The intoxication of meads will cause us to speak. I am a cell, I am a cleft, I am a restoration, I am the depository of song; I am a literary man; I love the high trees, that afford a protection above, And a bard that composes, without earning anger; I love not him that causes contention; He that speaks ill of the skilful shall not possess mead.

I am a harmonious one; I am a clear singer. I am steel; I am a druid. I am an artificer; I am a scientific one. I am a serpent; I am love; I will indulge in feasting. I am not a confused bard drivelling, When songsters sing a song by memory, They will not make wonderful cries; May I be receiving them. Like receiving clothes without a hand, Like sinking in a lake without swimming The stream boldly rises tumultuously in degree.

Meditating were my thoughts On the vain poetry of the bards of Brython. Making the best of themselves in the chief convention. Enough, the care of the smith’s sledge-hammer. I am in want of a stick, straitened in song, The fold of the bards, who knows it not?

I will declare when I am in the gravel, From the maintenance of gifts, From being numbered, from going to be a martyr In the reckoning of Saint Segerno. From a word when sin may be to me, Let there be no sigh from those that hear me.

The number that have been, and will be, Above heaven, below heaven, how many there are. And as many as have believed in revelation, Believed through the will of the Lord. As many as are on wrath through the circles, Have mercy, God, on thy kindred. May I be meek, the turbulent Ruler, May I not endure, before I am without motion. Grievously complaineth every lost one, Hastily claimeth every needy one.

Twelve thousand in the convention Believed through the voice of John. They worship, they deserve a portion, In heaven they will not be angry.

Seven scores, seven scores, seven hundreds of saints, And seven thousands and seven ten scores, November a number implored, Though martyrs good they came.

The number of saints, a synod without desire, From God the divine prophesy. In every tongue they compose, About the earth they were, And so many wisely prophesied Christ, and before he was, they were.

Multitudes, of beautiful works, Believed, served with us.

And entreating his exalted weight, Under the stars, saints he planted.

The number of saints in scores, Valiant men, golden their party. Before kings a career of praise, Warriors, no one was before them in demanding. In straits, in expanse, in every need, May they be a city to our body and our soul!