The Lament Op Llywarch Hen

The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing

With song, and the hills are all mantled with bloom;

But fairer than aught which the summer is bringing,

The beauty and youth gone to people the tomb!

Oh! why should I live to hear music resounding,

Which cannot awake ye, my lovely, my brave?

Why smile the waste flow'rs, my sad footsteps surrounding?

My sons! they but clothe the green turf of your grave!

Fair were ye, my sons! and all kingly your bearing,

As on to the fields of your glory you trod!

Each prince of my race the bright golden chain wearing,

Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the sod!

I weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding,

Which rouses ye not, oh, my lovely, my brave!

When warriors and chiefs to their proud steeds are bounding,

I turn from heav'n's light, for it smiles on your grave!