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First day of winter, the grain hardened,
The leaves stirring, the dewpond full,
Morning time before leaving;
Woe for him that trusts the stranger.
First day of winter, time of idle chatter,
Wind and weather keep pace with each other;
It is the work of the wise to keep a secret.
The leaves stirring, the dewpond full,
Morning time before leaving;
Woe for him that trusts the stranger.
First day of winter, time of idle chatter,
Wind and weather keep pace with each other;
It is the work of the wise to keep a secret.
First day of winter, the stags are lean,
Yellow the birch-tops, the summerhouse empty;
Woe for him that sullies his name over nothing.
First day of winter, the branch-tips bent,
Outrage comes often from the mouths of the cruel;
Where there’s no skill, there’ll be no learning.
Yellow the birch-tops, the summerhouse empty;
Woe for him that sullies his name over nothing.
First day of winter, the branch-tips bent,
Outrage comes often from the mouths of the cruel;
Where there’s no skill, there’ll be no learning.
First day of winter, blustery weather,
Little like the start of the summer;
No one but God can know the future.
First day of winter, hard and dry,
Blackest the raven, arrow speeds from bow;
When old men stumble, young men smile.
Little like the start of the summer;
No one but God can know the future.
First day of winter, hard and dry,
Blackest the raven, arrow speeds from bow;
When old men stumble, young men smile.
First day of winter, the stag is lean;
Woe for the weak — if he suffers it is not for long;
Friendship is better indeed than beauty.
First day of winter, bare where the heather is burnt,
The plough in the furrow, the ox at his work;
There is hardly one friend in a hundred.
Woe for the weak — if he suffers it is not for long;
Friendship is better indeed than beauty.
First day of winter, bare where the heather is burnt,
The plough in the furrow, the ox at his work;
There is hardly one friend in a hundred.
"Kalan Gaeaf" from The White Book of Rhydderch, my translation
