Written for a Far Isles poetry contest many years ago: the theme was "Pigs and Apples", and the Household of Strongoak was a very new idea, co-hosting its first revel.
I must confess to a bit of plagarism here. An old acquaintance of mine who I last saw fleeing the battle of Arderydd seems to have gone a bit loopy since, and spends his time sitting in apple trees, writing poems addressed to the trees and a pig, and predicting Doom. The pig gets given a lot of advice, most of it literally of no use to man nor beast. I reckoned I could give it much more useful orders, resulting in a more cheerful prophecy, and in less than thirty verses, but the style should still be recognisable to anyone familiar with the Black Book of Carmarthen.
Just in case the judges of this illustrious contest don’t read early Welsh, I’ve provided a translation.
Oian aparchellan, |
Oh little pig, |
Oian aparchellan, |
Oh little pig, |
Sian ferch Rhianneth
May 1999