"Sweet Apple Tree that pleasantly grows,

Whose fruit I once stole to please a fair maiden

When, with sword on my thigh, stout shield on my shoulder,

Alone I slept in the woods of Calydon.

Beneath its branches I began softly to fade,

Dreaming that around its' trunk I quickly played

With a sweet enchantress of most splendid form.

And since then for ten and forty years

I became the puppet of the Lawless Ones,

Wandering in gloomy dread among the faery sprites.

Hear now little pig! how pleasantly the song -birds sing:

Foretelling of the Lord's Return from o'er the sea.

They'll land no doubt on Monday morning.

Blessing the Welsh with their grand scheme.

Sweet Apple Tree, with other trees of crimson stain,

That grew concealed within the Calydonian Wood,

Your ripe fruit they sought but all in vain.

Until Cadwalydyr returns from the Rhyd Rheon Assembly

With Cynon to meet the Saxon horde.

Then will the Cymric peoples gain their victory,

Their leader's brow shining in sublime Glory.

Only then shall they gain their rightful inheritance,

And the Britons will rejoice at last,

Chanting once again their songs of peace, and dance

Yeah - sounding their horns with lightning blast."   

A Translation from Merlin's original Welsh poem by Leonidas Kazantheos