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Wales Poetry

The Golden Goblet, In Imitation Of Gothe
There was a king in Mon, {62} A true lover to his grave; ...

The Shipwreck
a Welsh Congregationalist Minister, and an eminent poet....

To The Spring
Oh, come gentle spring, and visit the plain, Far scatte...

The Cuckoo's Tale
Hail, bird of sweet melody, heav'n is thy home; With the...

An Address To The Summer
of Llanbadarn Fawr, Cardiganshire, and was born about ...

The Lament Op Llywarch Hen
The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing ...

My Native Cot
The white cot where I spent my youth Is on yon lofty mo...

The Mother To Her Child After Its Father's Death
My gentle child, thou dost not know Why still on thee ...

Dafydd Ap Gwilym's Invocation To The Summer To Visit Glamorganshire,
Where he spent many happy years at the hospitable mansion o...

To The Lark
"Sentinel of the morning light! Reveller of the...

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

The Rose Of Llan Meilen
Sweet Rose of Llan Meilen! you bid me forget That ever i...

The Ewe
So artless art thou, gentle ewe! Thy aspect kindles...

The Dawn
Streaking the mantle of deep night The rays of light ...

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

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

Translations From Miscellaneous Welsh Hymns
Had I but the wings of a dove, To regions afar I'd repa...

Song To Arvon
by the Rev. Evan Evans, a Clergyman of the Church of Eng...

The Poor Man's Grave
'Neath the yew tree's gloomy branches, Rears a mound ...

Llywarch Hen's Lament On Cynddylan
Taliesin in the sixth century. He was engaged at the batt...



Pennillion






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.





Next: Tribanau

Previous: Song Of The Foster-son, Love



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