Month of October—­thin the shade is showing;
  Yellow are the birch-trees; bothies empty growing;
  Full of flesh, bird and fish to the market going;
  Less and less the milk now of cow and goat is flowing,
  Alas! for him who meriteth disgrace by evil-doing;
  Death is better far than extravagance’s strowing. 
  Three acts should follow crime, to true repentance owing—­
  Fasting and prayer and of alms abundance glowing.

* * * * *

  Month of December—­with mud the shoe bemired;
  Heavy the land, the sun in heaven tired;
  Bare all the trees, little force now required;
  Cheerful the cock; by dark the thief inspired.

  Whilst the Twelve Months thus trip in dance untired,
  Round youthful minds Satan still weaves his fetter. 
  Justly spake Yscolan, Wisdom’s sage begetter,
  “Than an evil prophecy God is ever better.”

THE TERCETS

(After Llywarch Hen, a sixth-century prince and poet)

  Set is the snare, the ash clusters glow,
  Ducks plash in the pools; breakers whiten below;
  More strong than a hundred is the heart’s hidden woe.

  Long is the night; resounding the shore,
  Frequent in crowds a tumultuous roar,
  The evil and good disagree evermore.

  Long is the night; the hill full of cries;
  O’er the tree-tops the wind whistles and sighs,
  Ill nature deceives not the wit of the wise.

  The greening birch saplings asway in the air
  Shall deliver my feet from the enemy’s snare. 
  It is ill with a youth thy heart’s secrets to share.

  The saplings of oak in yonder green glade
  Shall loosen the snare by an enemy laid. 
  It is ill to unbosom thy heart to a maid.

  The saplings of oak in their full summer pride
  Shall loosen the snare by the enemy tied. 
  It is ill to a babbler thy heart to confide.

  The brambles with berries of purple are dressed;
  In silence the brooding thrush clings to her nest,
  In silence the liar can never take rest.

  Rain is without—­wet the fern plume;
  White the sea gravel—­fierce the waves spume. 
  There is no lamp like reason man’s life to illume.

  Rain is without, but the shelter is near;
  Yellow the furze, the cow-parsnip is sere,
  God in Heaven, how couldst Thou create cowards here!

HAIL, GLORIOUS LORD!

(From a twelfth-century Ms., “The Black Book of Carmarthen”)

  Hail, all glorious Lord! with holy mirth
  May Church and chancel bless Thy good counsel! 
  Each chancel and church,
  All plains and mountains,
  And ye three fountains—­
  Two above wind,
    And one above earth! 
  May light and darkness bless Thee! 
  Fine silk, green forest confess Thee!