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Wales PoetryBy The Rev Rees Prichard, Ma
To The Nightingale
river of that name was born at Mold, in Flintshire, in the...
To The Spring
Oh, come gentle spring, and visit the plain, Far scatte...
The Praise And Commendation Of A Good Woman
As a wise child excells the sceptr'd fool Who of conceit a...
"Oh Gwynedd, fast thy star declineth, Thy name is gone, t...
My Native Cot
The white cot where I spent my youth Is on yon lofty mo...
The Flowers Of Spring
beautiful stanzas, from which the following translation ...
The Monarchy Of Britain
Sons of the Fair Isle! forget not the time, Ere spoilers h...
Translations From Miscellaneous Welsh Hymns
Had I but the wings of a dove, To regions afar I'd repa...
Song Of The Foster-son, Love
I got a foster-son, whose name was Love, From one endu...
From The Hymns Of The Rev William Williams, Pantycelyn
he inherited from his ancestors, was born in the parish of...
The Hall Of Cynddylan
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night, I weep, for th...
To The Lark
"Sentinel of the morning light! Reveller of the...
The Lament Op Llywarch Hen
The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing ...
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 ...
An Address To The Summer
of Llanbadarn Fawr, Cardiganshire, and was born about ...
The Circling Of The Mead Horns
Fill the blue horn, the blue buffalo horn: Natural is mead...
Short Is The Life Of Man
Man's life, like any weaver's shuttle, flies, Or, like a t...
King of the mighty hills! thy crown of snow Thou reares...
The Faithful Maiden
At the dawning of day on a morning in May, When the bi...
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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