Madoc

It is told how Madoc, son of Prince Owain Gwynedd,

Sick of fighting his brethren,

Took leave of the homeland, and prepared ships

With men and munitions,

To seek far shores, sailing west,

Until he came to a land unknown,

Where many strange things were revealed.

A man much changed, he returned

To Britain, declaring the wonders he had seen,

To any who would listen,

And drew to him such men and women

As would quit the quarrelsome wasp-nest, Wales,

For a bounteous and peaceable demesne.

Thus, bidding farewell forever, he voyaged

Again into the West, never seen on these islands again.

It is said by those who have knowledge

That he and his people settled in that distant country

And prospered there, learning its customs and speech.


In a cottage in a haunted vale in South Wales,

Iolo Morganwg bends over precious maps,

Shuffles notes and draws lines with a ruler,

Scribbles calculations, specifying the lineaments

Of a dream, until, at last, his hovering finger

Comes down on that empty space

In the American heartland.


These are the First Men, who grew out of the ground,

The Mandans, at the heart of the world.

And, at the village centre, stands the shrine to the Lone Man:

Cottonwood palisade, bound with willow thong,

To mark the water level of the Deluge,

And a red cedar enclosed within.

When the willow leaf is full, the ceremony commences:

Gourds like upturned tortoises are brought,

Filled with water from the four quarters.

The villagers rush to see the Lone Man coming:

White-clay-covered, descending from the western hills,

He marches among the houses and people,

And opens up the medicine lodge.

Just as, at the time of the Flood, he had saved the Mandans

From drowning, landing his big canoe on a mountain

And bringing all good things in his hands.


The Welsh Indians? Everyone knows they exist.

They must be a little further on, beynd the next mountain.

If not the Delawares, they might be the Shawnees,

Or the Pawnees, no, not the Pawnees, the Comanches, then,

The Padoucas, perhaps...but they must be somewhere,

Those elusive whiteskinned Indians,

Gabbling and crooning in Welsh.


Out beyond the Blue Ridge Mountains,

A certain intrepid Evan Williams of Colcoed

Comes across Indians bantering in Welsh-

North Walian at that, and no mistake!

Wide-eyed and earnest, he addresses them politely,

Breathless as they blink dn respond,

In a queer yet familiar gab, Welsh and un-Welsh,

So they all stand there, gawping, bewildered,

Excitedly trying to communicate,

Expecting any minute an intelligible sentence...