I move on my feet, I break up the ground,
the green meadows, as long as I live.
If life leaves me I then bind fast
the swarthy Welsh, and sometimes better men.
Sometimes I give drink to a strong man
from out of my bosom. Sometimes the stately dame
treads me underfoot. Sometimes the Welsh girl,
dark-haired slave brought from afar,
stupid and drunk, on dark nights
lifts me and presses me, soaks me in water, warms me sometimes kindly by the fire, her wanton hands thrust in my bosom;
turning often sweeps through the dark.
Say what my name is who living ravage

the land, and dead am of service to men.