Before Geraint, the enemy's scourge, I saw white horses, tensed, red, After the war cry, bitter the grave.
From warriors ravens grew red And with their leader a host attacked.
I have been a multitude of shapes, Before I assumed a consistent form.
I praise the Lord, the Sovereign of the royal realm, Who has extended his sway over the tract of the world.
Reaper of enemies; strong of grip; One kind with his fathers.
There was a great battle Saturday morning From when the sun rose until it grew dark.
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