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Wales PoetryThat 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 Sick Man's Dream
Dans le solitaire bourgade, Revant a ses maux triste...
the following and several other poems in this collection. ...
Farewell every mountain To memory dear, Each streamlet...
From The Hymns Of The Rev William Williams, Pantycelyn
he inherited from his ancestors, was born in the parish of...
The Death Of Owain
Lo! the youth, in mind a man, Daring in the battle's v...
King of the mighty hills! thy crown of snow Thou reares...
Land of the Cymry! thou art still, In rock and valley, str...
The Withered Leaf
Dry the leaf above the stubble, Soon 'twill fall into ...
The Lament Op Llywarch Hen
The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing ...
The Rose Of The Glen
Although I've no money or treasure to give, No palace or c...
The Mountain Galloway
My tried and trusty mountain steed, Of Aberteivi's hardy...
A voice from time departed, yet floats thy hills among,...
By The Rev Rees Prichard, Ma
Streaking the mantle of deep night The rays of light ...
Strike the harp: awake the lay! Let Cambria's voice be h...
The Lord Of Clas
The Lord of Clas to his hunting is gone, Over plain and...
So artless art thou, gentle ewe! Thy aspect kindles...
O'er Walter's bed no foot shall tread, Nor step unhallo...
The Cuckoo's Tale
Hail, bird of sweet melody, heav'n is thy home; With the...
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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