My Father-land





Land of the Cymry! thou art still,

In rock and valley, stream and hill,

As wild and grand;

As thou hast been in days of yore,

As thou hast ever been before,

As thou shalt be for evermore,

My Father-land!



Where are the bards, like thine, who've sung

The warrior's praise? the harp hath strung,

With mighty hand?

Made chords of magic sound arise,

That flung their echoes through the skies,

And gained the fame that never dies,

My Father-land?



And where are warriors like thine own,

Who in the battle's front have shown

So firm a stand?

Who fought against the Romans' skill,

"The conquerors of the world," until

They found thou wert "invincible,"

My Father-land?



And where are hills like thine, or where

Are vales so sweet, or scenes so fair,

Such praise command?

There towering Snowdon, first in height,

Or Cader Idris, dreary sight,

And lonely Clwyd? Oh! how bright,

My Father-land!



Oh! how I love thee, though I mourn

That cold neglect should on thee turn,

Thy name to brand;

And oft the scalding tear will start

Raining its dew-drops from the heart,

To think how far we are apart,

My Father-land.



And when my days are almost done,

And, faltering on, I've nearly run

Life's dreary sand;

Still, still my fainting breath shall be

Bestowed upon thy memory,

My soul shall wing its way to thee,

My Father-land!





May And November My Native Cot facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

Feedback