The Owl

A sorry creature's the foul
Sad owl who won't be quiet.
She permits me no pater,
She's not still while stars are out,
Not for me, O forbidden,
A doze or a peaceful sleep.
House humping, amid the bats,
Its back to snow and drizzle.

In my ears, small charm for me,
Each night, memory's pennies,
When I close, public nuisance,
My eyes, the realms of honour,
This wakes me, I have not slept,
The owl's cry and her singing,
Her constant screech and laughter,
And the false notes from her throat,
From then, that's the way I live,
Till dawning, mournful passion,
She keeps singing, mournful cry,
"Hoo-thee-hoo,' lively longing.
Full force, by Saint Anne's grandson,
She stirs up the curs of the night.

She's a slut, two tuneless cries,
Thick head, persistent crying,
Broad forehead, berry-bellied,
Staring old mouse-hunting hag.
Stubborn, vile, lacking colour,
Dry her voice, her colour tin,
Loud gabble in the south wood,
O that song, roebuck's copses,
And her face, a meek maiden's,
And her shape, a ghostly bird.
Every bird, filthy outlaw,
Beats her; how strange she still lives.

More talkative in woodlands
By night than the nightingale,
By day she'll not stick, strict rule,
Her head from a tree's hollow.
Piercing wail, well I know her,
She is Gwyn ap Nudd's own bird.
Fool owl who croons to robbers,
Cursed be her tongue and her tune!

I have a song for scaring
The owl from my neighbourhood:
I'll set, waiting for winter,
A blaze by each ivied tree.

Dafydd ap Gwilim, translated by JP Clancy. From Medieval Welsh Lyrics, Macmillan 1965.