Wales PoetryThe Rose Of Llan Meilen
Sweet Rose of Llan Meilen! you bid me forget That ever i...
The Cuckoo's Tale
Hail, bird of sweet melody, heav'n is thy home; With the...
Serjeant Parry, the eminent barrister) says: "The followin...
Cymry, and was much practised in the houses of the Welsh g...
The Castles Of Wales
Ye fortresses grey and gigantic I see on the hills of...
Song Of The Foster-son, Love
I got a foster-son, whose name was Love, From one endu...
O'er Walter's bed no foot shall tread, Nor step unhallo...
Dafydd Ap Gwilym To The White Gull
Bird that dwellest in the spray, Far from mountain woods a...
The Bard's Long-tried Affection For Morfydd
All my lifetime I have been Bard to Morfydd, "golden m...
The Grove Of Broom
The girl of nobler loveliness Than countess decked in go...
May And November
Sweet May, ever welcome! the palace of leaves Thy hand for...
The Poor Man's Grave
'Neath the yew tree's gloomy branches, Rears a mound ...
A voice from time departed, yet floats thy hills among,...
The Fairy's Song
"Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy!"--SHAKSPEARE. ...
The Withered Leaf
Dry the leaf above the stubble, Soon 'twill fall into ...
My Native Land
My soul is sad, my spirit fails, And sickness in my he...
Dafydd Ap Gwilym's Invocation To The Summer To Visit Glamorganshire,
Where he spent many happy years at the hospitable mansion o...
That Had Been Converted Into A May-pole In The Town Of Llanidloes, In Montgomeryshire
Ah! birch tree, with the verdant locks, And reckless min...
The Hall Of Cynddylan
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night, I weep, for th...
Short Is The Life Of Man
Man's life, like any weaver's shuttle, flies, Or, like a t...
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.
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