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Wales Poetry

King of the mighty hills! thy crown of snow Thou reares...

The Legend Of Trwst Llywelyn
Once upon a time, Llywelyn was returning from a great battl...

To The Daisy
Oh, flower meek and modest That blooms of all the soonest,...

The Immovable Covenant
the Welsh of Mr. H. Hughes, was a Minister in the Baptist ...

Translated By The Rev William Evans
God doth withhold no good from those Who meekly fear him ...

A Bridal Song
Wilt thou not waken, bride of May, While the flowers are...

Concerning The Divine Providence

The Hall Of Cynddylan
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night, I weep, for th...

The Lord Of Clas
The Lord of Clas to his hunting is gone, Over plain and...

Ode To Cambria
Cambria, I love thy genius bold; Thy dreadful rites, and...

The Eisteddfod,
Strike the harp: awake the lay! Let Cambria's voice be h...

My Native Land
My soul is sad, my spirit fails, And sickness in my he...

The Farmer's Prayer
poems of the "Good Vicar Prichard of Llandovery" would be ...

My Father-land
Land of the Cymry! thou art still, In rock and valley, str...

The Sick Man's Dream
Dans le solitaire bourgade, Revant a ses maux triste...

An Ode On The Death Of Hoel
of the sixth century. He was himself a soldier, and d...

Glan Geirionydd
. One time upon a summer day I saunter'd on the shor...

May And November
Sweet May, ever welcome! the palace of leaves Thy hand for...

The Banks Of The Dee
One morning in May, when soft breezes were blowing O'er...

The World And The Sea: A Comparison
Like the world and its dread changes Is the ocean when it ...


Category: 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.

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