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Wales Poetry

Gwilym Glyn And Ruth Of Dyffryn
In the depth of yonder valley, Where the fields are bright...

The Circling Of The Mead Horns
Fill the blue horn, the blue buffalo horn: Natural is mead...

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 ...

Dafydd Ap Gwilym To The White Gull
Bird that dwellest in the spray, Far from mountain woods a...

The Vengeance Of Owain {96}
Gruffydd ab Cynan, Prince of Gwynedd, or North Wales, and ...

Twenty Third Psalm
My shepherd is the Lord above, Who ne'er will suffer me to...

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

Walter Sele
O'er Walter's bed no foot shall tread, Nor step unhallo...

Pennillion
Cymry, and was much practised in the houses of the Welsh g...

To The Nightingale
river of that name was born at Mold, in Flintshire, in the...

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

Short Is The Life Of Man
Man's life, like any weaver's shuttle, flies, Or, like a t...

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

The Faithful Maiden
At the dawning of day on a morning in May, When the bi...

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

The Deluge
* * * * * Whether to the east or west You go, wondr...

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

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

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



The Circling Of The Mead Horns






Category: The Beautiful.

Fill the blue horn, the blue buffalo horn:
Natural is mead in the buffalo horn:
As the cuckoo in spring, as the lark in the morn,
So natural is mead in the buffalo horn.

As the cup of the flower to the bee when he sips,
Is the full cup of mead to the true Briton's lips:
From the flower-cups of summer, on field and on tree,
Our mead cups are filled by the vintager bee.

Seithenyn ap Seithyn, the generous, the bold,
Drinks the wine of the stranger from vessels of gold;
But we from the horn, the blue silver-rimmed horn,
Drink the ale and the mead in our fields that were born.

The ale-froth is white, and the mead sparkles bright;
They both smile apart, and with smiles they unite:
The mead from the flower, and the ale from the corn,
Smile, sparkle, and sing in the buffalo horn.

The horn, the blue horn, cannot stand on its tip;
Its path is right on from the hand to the lip;
Though the bowl and the wine-cup our tables adorn,
More natural the draught from the buffalo horn.

But Seithenyn ap Seithyn, the generous, the bold,
Drinks the bright-flowing wine from the far-gleaming gold,
The wine, in the bowl by his lip that is worn,
Shall be glorious as mead in the buffalo horn.

The horns circle fast, but their fountains will last,
As the stream passes ever, and never is past:
Exhausted so quickly, replenished so soon,
They wax and they wane like the horns of the moon.

Fill high the blue horn, the blue buffalo horn;
Fill high the long silver-rimmed buffalo horn:
While the roof of the hall by our chorus is torn,
Fill, fill to the brim, the deep silver-rimmed horn.





Next: Dafydd Ap Gwilym To The White Gull

Previous: The Lily And The Rose



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