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Wales Poetry

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

My Father-land
Land of the Cymry! thou art still, In rock and valley, str...

Under The Orchard Tree
Under the deep-laden boughs of the orchard Walks a maid...

To The Daisy
Oh, flower meek and modest That blooms of all the soonest,...

An Ode To The Thunder
his bardic name of Dafydd Ionawr, was born in the year 1...

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 ...

Llywarch Hen's Lament On Cynddylan
Taliesin in the sixth century. He was engaged at the batt...

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

Roderic's Lament
Farewell every mountain To memory dear, Each streamlet...

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

The Shipwreck
a Welsh Congregationalist Minister, and an eminent poet....

Childe Harold
"Oh Gwynedd, fast thy star declineth, Thy name is gone, t...

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

The Flowers Of Spring
beautiful stanzas, from which the following translation ...

Sad Died The Maiden
Sad died the Maiden! and heaven only knew The anguish s...

Taliesin's Prophecy
A voice from time departed, yet floats thy hills among,...

Dafydd Ap Gwilym's Invocation To The Summer To Visit Glamorganshire,
Where he spent many happy years at the hospitable mansion o...

The Swan
Thou swan, upon the waters bright, In lime-hued vest, like...

My Native Cot
The white cot where I spent my youth Is on yon lofty mo...

The Farmer's Prayer
poems of the "Good Vicar Prichard of Llandovery" would be ...



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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