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Wales Poetry

My Native Land
My soul is sad, my spirit fails, And sickness in my he...

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

The Fairy's Song
"Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy!"--SHAKSPEARE. ...

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

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

The Monarchy Of Britain
Sons of the Fair Isle! forget not the time, Ere spoilers h...

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

The Rose Of The Glen
Although I've no money or treasure to give, No palace or c...

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 ...

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

To May
the following and several other poems in this collection. ...

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 ...

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...

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

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

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

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

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



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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