Wales PoetrySong Of The Foster-son, Love
I got a foster-son, whose name was Love, From one endu...
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 ...
The Withered Leaf
Dry the leaf above the stubble, Soon 'twill fall into ...
The Immovable Covenant
the Welsh of Mr. H. Hughes, was a Minister in the Baptist ...
Dafydd Ap Gwilym's Invocation To The Summer To Visit Glamorganshire,
Where he spent many happy years at the hospitable mansion o...
O'er Walter's bed no foot shall tread, Nor step unhallo...
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 Battle Of Gwenystrad
contemporary of Aneurin in the sixth century. He appe...
The Sick Man's Dream
Dans le solitaire bourgade, Revant a ses maux triste...
Dafydd Ap Gwilym To The White Gull
Bird that dwellest in the spray, Far from mountain woods a...
To The Spring
Oh, come gentle spring, and visit the plain, Far scatte...
Gwilym Glyn And Ruth Of Dyffryn
In the depth of yonder valley, Where the fields are bright...
The World And The Sea: A Comparison
Like the world and its dread changes Is the ocean when it ...
The Flowers Of Spring
beautiful stanzas, from which the following translation ...
* * * * * Whether to the east or west You go, wondr...
Gentle Woman! thou most perfect Work of the Divine Arc...
a Welsh Congregationalist Minister, and an eminent poet....
The Mother To Her Child After Its Father's Death
My gentle child, thou dost not know Why still on thee ...
The Legend Of Trwst Llywelyn
Once upon a time, Llywelyn was returning from a great battl...
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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