Welsh Lyrics of the Nineteenth Century | Page 8

mayest thou dwell in this my land,"?And she kissed the scars on his strong right hand.
Then, with her own white royal hand,?She losed his hauberk's metal band,?And in her fairest chamber laid?His bow of steel and his flashing blade.
With dainties quickly the board is laid,?And mead--the sweetest ever made,?Beaming with joy is every face,?And mirth and feasting fill the place.
The royal harpist sweeps the strings,?And brave Caradoc's deeds he sings,?His foes deriding, and most of all?Ostorius, the Roman general.
But evening fell--that fatal night?That darkened all our nation's light:?In sleep his head Caradoc laid,?And woke--a captive, bound, betrayed.
Aregwedd {66} she, of winsome smile,?Who broke the strength of Britain's Isle,?And gave the Samson of our land?Delilah-like to the Roman's hand.

A triad of triads, yea, thrice three score,?Of traitors our land has borne and more,?And traitors many within the sound?Of the Western sea may yet be found.
If e'er from love or hate you try?To trace a Welshman's pedigree,?There is a book--for you 'tis meant,?A bluebook of high Parliament.
For in this book incorporate?A thousand facts, brought up to date,?Prove that each father, mother, son,?In Wales is baseborn--every one!
It further shows there's scarce a wight?In all wild Wales knows how to write!?That none of those who only talk?Their native tongue know cheese from chalk.
That 'Eisteddfodau' Welshman teach?To spurn the thrice blest English speech:?Welsh books--there are none, save what quacks?Sell the poor churls as almanacks.
That therefore that most grievous sin?Yclept Dissent is rife therein;?But if 'the English' were more prized,?Wales might some day be--civilized!
Ring out, O bells--proclaim our glee?That a real nation we yet may be,?When English blessings reach us here--?Mountains of beef and floods of beer!
Fraud and treason garbed as grace?In the Blue Book find a place,?And in the 'Triads of Treachery'?Let these 'Three Spies' remembered be.
A Mother's Message.
Her visit was ended and back to her home
Far away my dear mother was going;?But now that the hour for parting was come
With sorrow her heart was o'erflowing.?Oh pale grew her cheeks and fast fell her tears,
Her faltering counsels delaying,?Then low fell these words on my listening ears,
"You know what my heart, dear, is saying."
Not a word of the devil, his plans and his wiles,
His lies and his love of deceiving,?Not a word of the world with its follies and smiles
She said when her son she was leaving.?I know on my journey she wished me all bliss,
I know that for me she was praying,?But all that I heard her lips utter was this,
"You know what my heart, dear, is saying."
Like the sea as it plays on a dangerous rock
Is the spirit that now is in motion,?Around me are men who at Heaven make mock,
And I'm but a drop in the ocean.?My feet are oft hasting the broad path along
But while on the precipice straying?I am saved by the message so tender, so strong,
"You know what my heart, dear, is saying."
'Sin not'--in the skies though this sentence I read,
In letters of fire engraven,?Though roared the loud thunder in accents of dread,
'Transgress not the laws of high Heaven,'?Though slowed the swift lightning to one solid flame,
My feet from ungodliness staying,?Far stronger the words from my mother which came,
"You know what my heart, dear, is saying."
Mountain Rill.
Mountain rill, that darkling, sparkling,
Winds and wanders down the hill,?'Mid the rushes, whispering, murmuring,
Oh that I were like the rill!
Mountain ling, whose flower and fragrance
Sorest longing to me bring?To be ever on the mountains--
Oh that I were like the ling!
Mountain bird, whose joyous singing
On the wholesome breeze is heard,?Flitting hither, flitting thither--
Oh that I were like the bird!
Mountain child am I, and lonely
Far from home my song I sing;?But my heart is on the mountain
With the birds amid the ling.
Llewelyn's Grave.
The earth has sunk low on the grave of Llewelyn,
The rainpools lie o'er it unruffled and still;?The moon at her rising, the sun at his setting,
Blush red as they look o'er the slope of the hill.?O Cymru, my land, dost know of this ill?
And where is the patriot hiding his face??The tears of the cloudwrack know well where he lieth,
The birds of the mountain can tell of the place.
By chance comes a Welshman and carelessly gazes,
Where fell the last hero who fought for his sake;?The breezes are moaning, the earth is complaining,
That the heart of old Cymru is feeble and weak.?'Tis aliens only their pilgrimage make
Where low lies our prince by the side of his glaive.?Thank God for the tears which are falling from heaven,
And the grass that grows green by the edge of the grave.
The Strand of Rhuddlan.
Frowned the dark heavens on the cause of the righteous,
Bondage has swept our free warriors away,?Vain were our prayers as our dreams had been baseless,
Sword of the foeman has carried the day.?Hid be thy strand 'neath the snows everlasting,
Frozen the waters that over thee break!?Come to defend, O thou God of all mercies,
Cause of the righteous