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| 303. A Halloween custom is to fill a tub with water and drop into it as many apples as there are young folks to try the trick. Then each one must kneel before the tub and try to bite the apples without touching them with the hands. The one who ... Read more of Halloween at Superstitions.ca | Informational.ca Privacy |
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Wales PoetryTranslations From Miscellaneous Welsh HymnsHad I but the wings of a dove, To regions afar I'd repa... The Ewe So artless art thou, gentle ewe! Thy aspect kindles... Glan Geirionydd . One time upon a summer day I saunter'd on the shor... The Poor Man's Grave 'Neath the yew tree's gloomy branches, Rears a mound ... The Immovable Covenant the Welsh of Mr. H. Hughes, was a Minister in the Baptist ... Ode To Cambria Cambria, I love thy genius bold; Thy dreadful rites, and... Tribanau Serjeant Parry, the eminent barrister) says: "The followin... My Father-land Land of the Cymry! thou art still, In rock and valley, str... The Bard's Long-tried Affection For Morfydd All my lifetime I have been Bard to Morfydd, "golden m... Song Of The Foster-son, Love I got a foster-son, whose name was Love, From one endu... Dafydd Ap Gwilym To The White Gull Bird that dwellest in the spray, Far from mountain woods a... Roderic's Lament Farewell every mountain To memory dear, Each streamlet... Dafydd Ap Gwilym's Address To Morfydd After She Married His Rival Too long I've loved the fickle maid, My love is turned to ... The Vengeance Of Owain {96} Gruffydd ab Cynan, Prince of Gwynedd, or North Wales, and ... To The Spring Oh, come gentle spring, and visit the plain, Far scatte... Song To Arvon by the Rev. Evan Evans, a Clergyman of the Church of Eng... The Praise And Commendation Of A Good Woman As a wise child excells the sceptr'd fool Who of conceit a... The Battle Of Gwenystrad contemporary of Aneurin in the sixth century. He appe... The Banks Of The Dee One morning in May, when soft breezes were blowing O'er... My Native Land My soul is sad, my spirit fails, And sickness in my he... |
PennillionCategory: The Humorous. Cymry, and was much practised in the houses of the Welsh gentry. The pennillion were sung by one voice to the harp, and followed a quaint air which was not only interesting, but owing to its peculiarity, it set forth in a striking manner the humour of the verse. This practice, which was quite a Welsh institution, is fast dying out, and is not now much in use except at eisteddfodau.] Many an apple will you find In hue and bloom so cheating, That, search what grows beneath its rind, It is not worth your eating. Ere closes summer's sultry hour, This fruit will be the first to sour. * * * * * * Those wild birds see, how bless'd are they! Where'er their pleasure leads they roam, O'er seas and mountains far away, Nor chidings fear when they come home. * * * * * Thou dearest little Gwen, kindest maiden of all, With cheeks fair and ruddy, and teeth white and small, With thy blue sparkling eyes, and thy eye-brows so bright, Ah, how I would love thee, sweet girl, if I might! * * * * * Place on my breast, if still you doubt, Your hand, but no rough pressure making, And, if you listen, you'll find out, How throbs a little heart when breaking. * * * * * Both old maids and young ones, the witless and wise Gain husbands at pleasure, while none will me prize; Ah! why should the swains think so meanly of me, And I full as comely as any they see! * * * * * From this world all in time must move, 'Tis known to every simple swain; And 'twere as well to die of love As any other mortal pain. * * * * * 'Tis noised abroad, where'er one goes, And I am fain to hear, That no one in the country knows The girl to me most dear: And, 'tis so true, that scarce I wot, If I know well myself or not. * * * * * What noise and scandal fill my ear, One half the world to censure prone! Of all the faults that thus I hear, None yet have told me of their own. * * * * * Varied the stars, when nights are clear, Varied are the flowers of May, Varied th' attire that women wear, Truly varied too are they. * * * * * To rest to-night I'll not repair, The one I love reclines not here: I'll lay me on the stone apart, If break thou wilt, then break my heart. * * * * * In praise or blame no truth is found, Whilst specious lies do so abound; Sooner expect a tuneful crow, Than man with double face to know. * * * * * My speech until this very day, Was ne'er so like to run astray: But now I find, when going wrong, My teeth of use to atop my tongue. Next: Tribanau Previous: Song Of The Foster-son, Love
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